A Little Drop of Hope
by Chinchilla17
Summary: *Mockingjay Spoilers*   Peeta POV.  She said she found comfort in my arms, and eventually in my kisses.  But, you may be wondering, how did two damaged people like us get there?  I'll just warn you, it's not an easy, comfortable story...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hunger Games/Catching Fire/Mockingjay**

**A/N: Recently I reread the Hunger Games trilogy, and I completely understood why I was compelled to write this piece after the first time I read Mockingjay. As a reader, there was so much more I wanted to know – how did Peeta recover from the hijacking? How did he and Katniss eventually end up together? Don't get me wrong – I absolutely loved the books. Having that not all spelled out for us means we get to make up our own accounts of what happened. So, this is the story that I imagined – the story of Peeta's recovery and return to District 12 and Katniss. I hope you enjoy it! **

I'm staring again.

It's like I'm still that boy. The boy in school who couldn't keep his eyes off the girl. Not talking, just staring. I actually think it's pretty pathetic that after everything we've been through, that this is how things are.

She looks different. But then, so do I. Our bodies both ravaged by fire. I'm thankful her face is the same; still the face I know so well. My eyes scan the parts of her that aren't covered by her Mockingjay outfit – her neck, her hands. I see the familiar crazy pattern of grafts. The areas that needed all new skin, the areas they didn't touch. I sit there staring, following the map of lines on her left hand with my eyes, imagining tracing the lines with my fingers. Wondering if she'd let me.

My mind travels back to the moment she walked in. The brief glance at me. I wonder, in that time did she notice that there are no manacles, no guards hovering over me? Does she know that my mind is better, that I understand more? That I remember how much I loved her and still do?

This is the first time we've seen each other since she hugged me goodbye in Tigris's shop. Not the first time I've seen her though. I saw her then, the moment her world went up in flames. The moment she lost Prim.

I don't think she even knows that I was right there, and she might hate me if she found out. That I was following her, that I only wanted to help her, to protect her. It was insane. Peacekeepers, rebels, refugees, pods. Trying to keep my eyes on her, seeing her almost lost in that abyss. Panic started to overwhelm me. Not the bad panic, like I wanted to kill her. No, it was more like it used to be, like it should be. That I had to protect her at any cost. I was desperate to find her. Then I saw her at the flagpole. Gale wasn't with her anymore, her cloak was different. She looked so vulnerable there, so alone. I raced through crowds of refugees to get to her, pushing them aside, yelling at them to get out of my damn way.

For a moment, I was distracted by the hovercraft, the Capitol's emblem gleaming like a symbol of the most sickening hate. My emotions all started to tangle together. Rage at the hovercraft, followed by fleeting pleasant memories when I saw the silver parachutes drift down. Followed by absolute horror and shock when a couple dozen of them exploded. Blood splattered, pieces of people and flesh flew out towards the crowd. My eyes began to lose focus, I felt unsteady. But, I had a job to do. I had to help Katniss. When my eyes focused again, I spotted her. Not far in front of me, she was trying to get through the crowd, calling out something. I freaked out. That was not okay! She was going to blow her cover, and I frantically tried to get to her. Closing the gap. Ten feet away. Eight feet away. Five feet away. I noticed a few people pointing at her. She was about to get caught. I had to save her. I had to. Just a couple of feet. I couldn't risk calling her name, putting her in greater danger. I knew I'd just have to grab and pull her out of there and find a safe spot together. Two feet away, almost within reach.

Then, a million explosions going off at once. The sky lit up with fire and flame and noise. Bodies, still upright, but absolutely engulfed in flames. I didn't even know it then, that Prim was one of them. Then a fireball hit Katniss, like it was aiming right for her and she literally became the girl on fire. At that point, I was shouting, my arms reaching for her, clawing for her, but then I was on fire too. Screaming in agony. Fearing I really was losing her this time. Blanking out in the panic and pain and confusion.

If only I could have gotten there faster. I've played it out in my head way too many times: _ I close the gap and grab her. She turns, sees me, and confusion crosses her face. I try to reassure her, I'm okay, I want to protect her. She has doubts, but it doesn't matter, because at least she's looking at me when it happens. At least she doesn't see her sister become a torch. _

When I woke in the burn unit, I didn't care about anything except knowing if she was alive or not. Once I got the answer to that, I knew I couldn't give up. The doctors pieced my body back together while I worked on repairing my addled mind. I had some help from Dr. Aurelius, but mostly it was just me. Walking torturously through each memory, trying to sort them all out. Which ones were shiny, which weren't. Which fit my concept of Katniss, which didn't. To be honest, when you're lying immobilitzed in a bed, unable to move due to pain, and under the power of sedatives, there's a lot of time to just think.

I decided that I wouldn't see her again until I was better. Until I knew I wouldn't have an overpowering desire to kill her. Because, honestly, ever since I got back, I've hated seeing the fear in her eyes. I've seen a million emotions in Katniss' expressions towards me over the last couple of years – apprehension, worry, joy, confusion, annoyance, anger, even desire, maybe love. But never fear. That's what hurt the most. So, I stayed away and avoided her until I knew she wouldn't have to look at me that way. As much as it just about killed me, I didn't tempt myself by going to look at her either, even though she was only a couple of rooms away. Because I knew if I did, I couldn't have stayed away.

I liked to imagine her coming to see me. Suddenly looking up and seeing her standing in my doorway. I'd sit up in my bed (my restraints clearly no longer needed), start to stand, but she'd be by my side already. And she'd want to reach out and touch me. Like she did when we said goodbye. That was a moment I didn't think would ever happen, Katniss wrapping her arms around me. Before that, she had done everything in her power to avoid touching me, even recoiling when she'd find herself near me. But then she embraced me right before we left Tigris's shop. I couldn't believe she was in my arms again, her body pressed close against mine, just like it used to be. Making me feel a way I thought I'd never feel again. That's what I imagined in the burn unit, but it never happened.

So, I didn't see her, until just about 5 minutes ago, just after Haymitch showed up to fetch me for this meeting. It was a surprise to see Haymitch. He checked up on me a couple of times in the burn unit, but mostly he kept his distance. Maybe it's like how he could only choose one of us to help in the Games, and again he picked Katniss.

He walked into my room without much greeting and threw a gray District 13 uniform on my bed. Told me to change into it quickly, that I was wanted in a meeting, that Snow was getting what he deserved today. I muttered some kind of agreement and he was about to go. But he stopped, reached into his pocket, and pulled something out. He held it out for me, but I couldn't tell what it was. He placed it in my hand. It was a pearl. I couldn't figure out what the meaning of it was, although there was some kind of fuzzy memory attached to it.

"It was in her pocket. When they cut her clothes away, after the fire. This was found in her pocket," was all he said.

We both just stood there, me holding the pearl and trying desperately to remember, Haymitch just watching me. And it was like a space started opening in my brain, a pocket of air that started small but then was expanding and in it was suddenly a vivid memory. _The clock arena. A beach. Opening an oyster. Showing something to Katniss, saying something funny. Katniss and I laughing. Holding the pearl out to her. Katniss holding it in her palm, wrapping her slender fingers around it. Looking deep into my eyes. _

She kept it? That little pearl? Through the Arena to District 13, everything that happened there, and then back here to assassinate Snow. She had it with her? This pearl? My mind started racing. My heart too.

Haymitch turned to go, and stopped. Without looking he just said, "There's still hope, you know." He paused, then added, "For you, I mean," and walked out.

I just stared at the pearl, sitting in my palm. Haymitch's words played around in my brain. "There's still hope, you know. For you, I mean." Who did he mean by "you"? Just me? Or Katniss and me? What kind of hope? I wanted to ask him. My eyes caught the gray uniform, so I threw it on and raced out to find him. Only I was too late. He was just walking into the meeting when I caught up with him.

I rolled the pearl in my fingers as I entered the room. This one little pearl, like a drop of hope in an ocean of hurt, anger, and loneliness. I shoved it in my pocket.

So, here I am, staring at Katniss, holding this little piece of hope in my pocket, and she finally meets my eyes. And here I am again, the little boy in school, because I look away. Afraid that the hope I'm clinging to in my pocket is not real.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hunger Games/Catching Fire/Mockingjay.**

I don't have any more time to dwell, though, because suddenly there is Coin. My mind shifts, away from the burn unit and pearls and staring and longing for Katniss to the moment, to the words Coin's speaking. And I suddenly think I must have totally tuned out because I hear something so absurd come out of her mouth. Some idea about a new Hunger Games with the Capitol's children. Without thinking, I just yell out, "Are you joking?" I take a quick glance around the table, wanting to see the aghast faces of everyone else, knowing they'll wonder what the hell Coin is talking about too.

But, that's not how it is. Johanna, Enobaria, they both have bloodlust in their eyes and seem to like the idea. To their credit, Annie looks distraught, Beetee uncomfortable. I glare at Haymitch, and he just has his look, the one that masks any emotions he's actually capable of feeling. I am suddenly afraid to look at Katniss, scared of what I might see. I yell out my disapproval of this plan, this horrific, barbaric idea that Coin has. Annie supports me, but we're waiting on Haymitch and Katniss. I can't look at either of them. Instead, I look down at my scarred hands. I know her. I know she won't vote for this. I know she never could.

We wait. It is absolutely silent in the room. Then she says it. She votes yes. For Prim, of all things. Like Prim would ever approve! I am beyond shocked, I am totally disgusted and feel like my brain just got hijacked again. Then it's only Haymitch left, and suddenly I'm yelling at him. Everything I want to say to Katniss about the horror and atrocity of the idea. Only I can't say it to her, so I let him have it. Then he speaks. He sides with the Mockingjay. I'm shellshocked and just slump back in my chair. Maybe everyone's been hijacked. Because I feel like suddenly I don't know anybody in this room, and I don't want to know them.

We're ushered out of the room, and Katniss won't look at anything but the floor tiles. It's time for her to take out Snow. She hates Snow. I know she does. But, if she's agreed to a Hunger Games, how's that showing her hatred of him? Hating equals the killing of innocent children to her? It doesn't add up, and I feel a relapse coming on. All that time in the hospital, the painstaking work to get better, and I feel it starting to unravel. The doubts I had about her, the anger the Capitol made me feel towards her. It's clawing its way back in, trying to reclaim its prominence in my brain. I fight it. I know her, I tell myself. I know her and I love her and this can't be right. Confusion is setting in, I'm getting angered at her, remembering her tactics and manipulations in the Games. How she always had an angle, a plan. How she and Haymitch had this unspoken thing, how they knew each other's thoughts, how they schemed together. And it's starting to make sense. I'm quickly putting the puzzle together, finding all the pieces.

All the remaining tributes are placed into a semicircle about ten feet behind Katniss. I see Snow up there, secured to a post. I see Katniss getting ready to aim her arrow. And about two seconds before she fires it, the last piece of the puzzle falls into place. I get it, I see it, I know what she's doing. Relief floods though me, relief that she does hate Snow, that she hates the Games and everything they mean, that she hates the senseless killing of children. That she understands what's going on right now, probably better than anyone else here. So it doesn't surprise me when at the last second, she moves the angle of her bow, changes her target. And just like that, I'm reminded of the squirrels she used to trade with my dad, because Coin falls dead with an arrow through her eye.

All hell breaks loose after this. But I can't take my eyes off of her. Not for the same reasons as before. Not because of the pearl and the little drop of hope. Not because I want to touch her. But, because I am trying to think like her, to keep up with her plans and schemes. Through the mayhem, somehow I hear her whisper "goodnight" to her bow, and then I know. It's not just goodnight to the bow, it's goodnight to everyone and everything, and I have to stop her. I leap forward, I know she's going for the nightlock, and I know where it is. This time I won't be too slow, I won't fail. I'll make it to her this time.

And I do, I get my hand there, just in time for her to sink her teeth into it as she attempts to rip open the pocket. I look hard into her eyes. I won't look away. I'm not that little boy. We've been through too much for that. She's got a crazy look in her eyes as she screams at me, "Let me go!" And I answer the only way I possibly can. "I can't." Then guards are pulling me off of her, others are pulling her away. I'm screaming, she's screaming. No one even knows what anyone is screaming, the place is just in absolute pandemonium.

So, I did what I set out to do a long time ago. I saved her, I saved Katniss. And, just like all the other times I planned to do it, I can pretty much guess she hates me for it. And it hits me square in the gut when I realize it doesn't matter anyway. Katniss just assassinated the President of Panem. There's no way she's getting out of this alive.

I'm taken back to the burn unit. My violent scuffle with the guards pretty much shredded half my grafts. I wonder if the same happened to her. I am desperate to see her. It's not like last time, when I insisted on being better first. No, now I just have to see her. I scream out her name. Over and over again. This doesn't help my situation. The way I grabbed her after the assassination and my screaming now are interpreted as a "relapse" – that I want Katniss dead. No, no, no, never. I don't want her dead. I just want her alive. I just want her.

I lie in my old bed in the burn unit, restraints pinning me down again as my mind explodes with fear of her execution. I am desperately afraid that I'll never see her again. Haymitch comes to see me, assures me there will be a trial, tries to convince me she can make it out alive. He tells me she's in the Training Center. I can picture her room exactly, remembering our last night there before the Quarter Quell, when she stopped me from going to my room. Our uneasy sleep, the way we desperately clutched each other.

Days pass, I'm moved to a new room. It's no longer the burn unit, but it's equipped with a very familiar series of restraints. Each new place I go, I carry the pearl, Katniss' pearl with me and set it on the bedside table. I still don't know what it means exactly, why she carried it with her everywhere. Now I don't think I'll ever get the chance to find out.

Haymitch visits me sometimes, never staying for long. I beg him to let me see her, but he tells me he isn't even allowed.

"And I was her mentor," he grumbles.

I wonder if the star-crossed lover thing still counts for anything, but I decide not to ask.

More time passes, and they eventually decide I'll be okay without the restraints. I guess since Katniss is locked up tight in the Training Center, they don't see a lot of risk with me. Of course, there's so much security at the end of the hall, I don't think I'd make it far anyway.

It feels better to be out of the restraints and able to walk around, but I'm also at a loss for what to do. That changes when I get an unexpected visitor.

"All this time, I didn't realize you were here too," Annie says. She tiptoes in and stands tentatively in front of me. Of course, Annie would be here too. The floor for the mentally unbalanced. Slowly, she lifts and extends her arms, and I am slow to figure out she wants to give me a hug. Annie's not exactly someone I know very well. But I go ahead and pull her into an embrace, an awkward one at that, but an embrace nevertheless. I suppose we are some kind of kindred spirits – our brains twisted almost beyond recognition by the Capitol, grieving the loss of our loved ones. But I can't say that to her, because her love, Finnick, really is dead. I feel like that will be true for Katniss, but it isn't yet. So, I just pull back and try my best to give Annie an encouraging smile. She runs her fingers down my arm, seeking my hand, and grasps it.

"It's good to see you, Peeta. To see someone who knew him," she says. Her eyes, like Finnick's are the color of the sea. In them I see the hurt and pain she feels, from all she has suffered. Her hand feels warm in mine. I realize this is the only human contact I've had, other than being pulled and thrashed by guards and worked on by doctors, since the embrace with Katniss. It's nice. Different, but nice, and it reminds me of what it's like to make that connection with another person.

Annie lets go of my hand and we sit down, me on the bed, she on the one chair in this tiny room. Other than Haymitch and Dr. Aurelius, she's the only person I've even had a conversation with since Coin's assassination. As much as her brain is mushy and confused at times, I have to say it's a welcome change. She's got a warmth to her that is definitely lacking in Haymitch and not exactly oozing out of Aurelius either.

We make small talk for awhile, and touch on some bigger things too. Things she misses about Finnick, like his penchant for mint ice cream. I would have never guessed. She asks about Katniss, how I think the trial will come out. This is a subject I can't talk about, so I keep it short.

"I understand why she did it," Annie says unexpectedly, after a silence. "Why she killed Coin. She…she was brave to do it." In Annie's voice is a kind of hardness, a toughness that never has shown itself before. Almost like she wishes she had done it herself.

We talk a bit more, but then she has to go. We stand, and I wonder for a moment if she'll hug me goodbye again. I don't know if I want her to or not. It was uncomfortable in the way it feels strange to share personal stuff with strangers, but it was also comforting. Her warmth and softness.

I watch her go, and think about what that's like. To touch someone. To touch, to hold a person. One person in particular. And it gives me an idea.

When Aurelius comes to check in with me, I ask him for just a few things. No, not ask. I tell him there are some things I need. He looks skeptical, but just nods, and sure enough, the next day they're waiting for me. Paints, brushes, a canvas.

How do you paint the way someone feels? How do you capture not just their features, their curves and angles, but the other things? The way their skin feels under your own rough hands, the smell of their hair, the whisper of their breath. You can't spend every night with someone, sharing a bed, wrapped in each other's arms, and not know what they feel like. I don't even know if Katniss realizes how aware I am of her body. The parts of her that are soft and delicate, the parts that are too bony from a lifetime of hunger. Her smell, the salty taste of her neck, the way she curves herself around me to form us into one being.

So this is what I try to capture in my painting. It's different than all the other paintings I've done before. All those pieces I did after the first Games. With those, it was all visual. My memories of what everything looked like to me. I was able to complete each of those in two days, maybe three.

This one is different. It's all about feel, not just an image of her face or her arms holding a bow. It's painstaking, but I need it. It's an anchor to me, and I find it consumes me in all my waking hours and even sometimes in my dreams.

Annie comes by every day. I don't show my work to anyone but her. Somehow, I feel like she understands what I'm doing. She sits and watches me paint, never says anything that would be considered critical, but instead asks me questions to help me. Like, "When you wake up next to her, what part of her do you notice first? Her hair? Her eyes? Her mouth?"

I don't even know how long this painting takes me, but finally, I'm done. The day I finish, I just stand and look at it. Maybe for a few minutes, maybe hours. I don't really know. I just see it, and I feel her again. I feel her arms wrapped around me, her head on my chest, the way she was protecting me while I was protecting her.

Annie comes in and looks at it with me. We stand in silence. And then she tells me goodbye.

I'm stunned. "What do you mean, goodbye?" I ask her.

"I'm going home. To District 4. No, not to my house or anything like that," she says as she sees the question in my eyes. "To their hospital, of course. I just need to be there now. I just need it now," she says again, but more to herself than to me.

I can't stand the thought of Annie leaving and I feel sick. Annie, my only connection to a living, breathing human, and she's walking out my door.

Not knowing what else to do, we just stand there, side by side, staring at my painting. Finally, she says softly, "You did it, Peeta. Your painting. I know exactly how Katniss feels to you."

I suddenly don't even know if I can hold it together with this goodbye. I feel totally blindsided, because I really hadn't considered the thought of Annie leaving. She must sense my pain, because she turns and gently wraps her arms around me. We just stand there, holding each other, then she whispers, "You know, sometimes life springs unexpectedly from the ashes. Find your way home, Peeta."

These are the kinds of things Annie often says. I don't understand them, but I know her well enough by now that they're not just random comments. I just keep holding her, and suddenly I notice something. Something I hadn't noticed in all this time. Annie feels, well, it's her tummy. I suddenly note the sensation that her tummy is larger than it was before. I release her, hold her at arms length, and my eyes travel down to just below her waist. And there it is, a bump I hadn't seen. Her words run through my brain: "Sometimes life springs unexpectedly from the ashes."

I look back at her eyes, which are now wet, and start to say, "Annie, are you really pr…" but she stops me with a finger in front of my lips and a soft shush. I don't understand until I really look into her eyes. Besides the tears, there is fear. And I get it. Fear of losing this new, tender life. Fear of even talking about it. So, instead, I lean forward and kiss her on the cheek. "Take care, Annie. Take care of yourself," I say, and she turns and leaves.

I am devastated by Annie's absence. I stare at my painting. Here I am, staring at Katniss again. It fills me in some ways, connects me to her, reminds me of what we shared. But it also hurts so freaking much.

I think about Annie's last words: "Find your way home, Peeta." Home. Where the hell is that?


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games/Catching Fire/Mockingjay. **

**Thanks for reading, thanks for reviewing!**

The days since Annie left are a blur to me. Since putting everything I feel into my painting, I find I have no more desire to paint. In desperation, I attempt to engage the doctors and aides around here in conversation, but they never have more than a couple of words before they're off to the next patient.

Annie's words shake and roll around in my head. "Find your way home, Peeta." I had a home. A family. A place of my own. Friends. All taken from me, as well as too many other things to count. So how can I find my way there?

I take a shower to clear my head, get out and finish toweling off, and turn to grab my clothes, when suddenly I see this guy in the room, watching me. I flip out – some creep got into my room and is just standing there, naked and staring at me. He's a total freak – emaciated body, mottled skin, permanent grimace etched on his face, bugged-out eyes, hair growing unevenly on his head, his leg is …..a prosthetic leg. And it's that one thing, the only thing, that clues me in. I do know this guy, and that ugly realization creeps me out even more. I fight an overpowering urge to turn and flee, and instead slowly approach the guy. I take a step closer, he does the same thing. Mirroring my movements. The mirror.

I don't know how I've avoided this full-length mirror since I've been in this room, but apparently I had the good sense to until now. I just stand there, staring at the reflection of a person I don't even know anymore. In truth, I've never been one of those guys who's obsessed with his physique, always showing it off, parading around. Like Finnick, well, at least the guy we thought Finnick was before we actually knew him. But I always accepted that I was okay. Strong. Masculine. Possibly desirable in some way. What I see now, however, couldn't even be considered a whole person. More an assembly of mismatched, second-hand parts and pieces. It's disgusting to me, and I actually feel nauseous. What the hell happened? Okay, technically I know what happened, every bloody stinking insane part of it. So what? It's no excuse. I refuse to cut myself any slack.

And it starts to simmer. Right around my navel. A simmer, becoming a slow boil, until it's spreading down to my legs and up to my chest, expanding through every ugly part of me until it starts bubbling over. Hate. Total all-consuming, overwhelming, raw hate. I don't even bother to find an object or article to throw at that god-forsaken mirror, I just use myself. Hurtle my naked mutt body headlong into the mirror while all my hate spills out in an absolute scream from the depths of Hell. Which is more piercing, that scream or the shattering of a million tiny pieces of glass? I don't even feel any pain from the multitude of shards that pierce my skin, my adrenaline surging into overload. In fact, I do everything possible to further mutilate my body, lifting myself out of the glass only to slam myself back down into it. I twist and writhe, attempting to lodge each of those pieces of glass into my skin, into my blood, into my heart and head and everything else that simply can't take it anymore.

Some guys, okay lots of guys, I don't know how many, are trying to pull me out of there, but the glass is cutting into them too. They're cursing and yelling, blood is absolutely everywhere. I think it's mostly mine, but the fact I'm still conscious and breathing means I didn't quite lose enough, damn it.

The last thing I feel is another jab, and I think it's another shard entering my arm, but two seconds of wooziness tell me it's an injection and then everything is black.

"For the love of….what in the…for god's sake, Peeta, what were you thinking?"

I hear the gruff voice before seeing the source, and its owner is not really someone I feel like dealing with at the moment. So, I lay there with my eyes still closed, hoping he'll go away. I tense for a moment as I become aware of pain over every inch of my skin, wondering if ten thousand tracker jackers made me their target. But then a vision of broken glass comes into my head, and I know why I hurt. Well, on the bright side, I seem to be able to feel physical pain again, I think as I wince.

"Come on, damn it. You can't lose it like this! When she gets out, she just might need you at least to be together!"

He knows exactly how to catch my interest, knows I'm not going to feign sleep with words like that spewing from his stinking, alcohol-ridden mouth.

"What do you mean 'gets out', Haymitch? Is there a verdict?" I ask, voice still thick with drugged sleep but heart hammering in my weak, patchwork, mutt chest.

"No, but there will be. She's going to make it, okay?" His voice is not exactly convincing, more like he's trying to convince himself. But, I'll take whatever hope I can get. "Now tell me what the hell that whole stunt was about."

I really don't feel like confiding in Haymitch. But, given the lack of other choices now that Annie is gone and the necessity of explaining how a thousand pieces of glass ended up in my skin, well, I figure I may as well. So, I tell him. The whole ugly story of the day Peeta launched a psychopathic attack on a defenseless mirror. It's embarrassing in the retell, but I honestly don't care. I find at the moment there's not a lot I do care about.

He doesn't say anything when I'm done. I'm sure he's thinking I'm a complete wacko, that any attempts made by Dr. Aurelius or myself or anyone else around here are a complete failure. But, he ends up surprising me.

"It's grieving, Peeta. Grieving that which is lost and will never come back. It's, well, it's just something you have to go through before you can move on."

I take a moment to consider this. Then I ask him, "You've done that? Grieved and then moved on?" It's an honest question, not an accusation. But he must not see it that way.

"I've got better things to do!" he bellows and as he leaves, he yells, "Get it together, kid!"

An image of a floor littered with empty liquor bottles floats through my brain, and I know the answer to my question. The nerve he has, of all people, to tell me to get it together! I curse him under my breath, then more loudly just because it feels good. I spend the next hour wishing I'd never met the guy, but after than bitterness wears itself out, I'm just left with hating myself again.

So, I'm supposed to grieve, huh? Grieve what's lost and will never be back so I can "move on"? Sound suspiciously like Annie's instructions to find my way home.

I'd try, but I don't really know how to do this. How to grieve, other than launching myself at painful inanimate objects. But I think about Haymitch saying I need to be together when Katniss gets out. Not if. When. And I know I have to try. It's a small spark of motivation, but that's all I've got right now.

I give it some thought for awhile. I've got days while they're still extracting the random piece of glass, suturing, wrapping, repairing grafts yet again. How am I going to do this? Grieve. I start by sitting and thinking about what I've lost. A guy comes in and changes some bandages. I think some more. Dinner is delivered on a plastic tray. Think. Interruption. Think. Interruption. The next person who interrupts is going to find his head ripped from his body. I know there has to be another way.

After the glass situation is largely under control, I make my next request of Dr. Aurelius. His tentative reaction gives me some doubts about this guy. He must not be used to his patients asking him for things. But this is a simple request, should be easy enough to manage. He walks off shaking his head and muttering, but I feel pretty confident I'm going to get what I need.

I lie awake in bed that night, rolling the pearl around and around in my hand, finding myself pretty fearful of what lies ahead. I consider if there might be another way, but no brilliant ideas present themselves. I get up and walk over to where I've set the painting and turn it around so I can see her. I sit on the floor, hold the pearl, and, sure enough, I'm staring at her once again.

"What would you think, Katniss? Would you think I was brave to do this or that I've completely lost whatever's left of my mind? I wish I could ask you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hunger Games/Catching Fire/Mockingjay. **

**A/N: I so appreciate everyone who has taken the time to review. Thank you!**

Something like spring sunlight shines through my window, and I know I can't delay. I'm barely dressed when my escort arrives, and I'm sure my surprise shows when I look at her. She's just not what I would have expected for my escort. Petite. Delicate. Could be easily overpowered. A testimony to how improved the doctors must consider my condition.

"It's really exciting, really, to get to meet you and all," she tells me enthusiastically, a giddy smile playing all over her face. "Of course I was always rooting for you in the Games. You and…." She's obviously afraid to say the name. I just nod, give a scant close-lipped smile and hope that's the end of that topic.

She says her name is Maya, and she's clearly a Capitol girl, from the iridescent cloud tattoos on her face to the impression of raindrops rolling down her arms. Nice smile, though, and it's funny when I realize I'm more worried about my appearance troubling her than the other way around.

I ask Maya to just give me a moment to grab something, and I sneak the pearl into my pocket. I consider the painting too, but it's quite large and impossible to ignore. Basically, it would be a distraction. I sigh as I consider my ache for that distraction.

Maya then leads me down several identical white hallways and corridors to a small room. Actually, a little square hellhole of a room. From just outside the doorway I take note of the white padded walls, some kind of white spongy floor covering, no windows. It makes me wonder what kind of condition a person would have to be in to warrant being thrown into a room like this, given that even in my most monstrous moments I was never put here.

"So, you really want to be here?" Maya asks, the corners of her mouth forming a pout. She's got that look like when someone says something is "icky." I just shrug. I can't very well say "yes", since I don't want to be, and I have no desire to explain to her that it's more a need and an unwanted one at that.

"Okay, then!" she chirps, and she waits for me to enter.

"You don't have to stick around," I tell her, feeling like this is too weird for anyone else to witness, my entrance into self-imposed solitary confinement.

"Um, well, someone's got to lock you in," she says, her voice lilting in the way that means she thinks I'm a little short on brain power.

"Right. Okay, then. Well, Maya, thanks." I give her a half-hearted wave, and just as she's closing the door, I hear her say, "I'll always be rooting for you!"

Then a slam. Click. A couple more clicks. I'm locked in.

I take in the space around me. Sadly, I can tell it fits my needs perfectly. Great care has been take to make sure a person could not possibly harm themselves in this room. All lighting is built into the ceiling. No wires, sharp instruments, electrical dangers, and, luckily for me, no mirrors. There's a strange wall unit that takes me a minute to figure out - my toilet. A little cabinet holds a supply of water and foods, like ready-to-eat meal pouches, breads, things that won't spoil. Good, I think, since I have no idea how long this will take.

I spot the red buzzer that Dr. Aurelius told me about. My lifeline. When I've done all I need to do here, I just press it, and someone will free me. Of course, I can always press it sooner if needed. That gives me some comfort at least.

I also spot the one thing I fought Aurelius on. Built into the wall near the ceiling is a little camera. This was a condition of Dr Aurelius's; as my doctor who's "concerned for my safety" it was not negotiable. So, he can listen to me, watch me, and subsequently come racing in here if he feels he needs to. He has sworn on the life of his mother, who I'm not sure is actually alive anymore, that he will not allow anyone else to watch or listen, and will only come in if it's an absolute emergency. I don't believe him for a minute, but I'm out of options so I live with it.

So, there's my out, the buzzer. Plus Aurelius's safety net, the camera. There is only one other way in which I might get sprung early. My agreement with Haymitch. The man has been a cheat, a liar, and a manipulator enough times, but I know this is the one thing I can trust him with.

I take a minute to just breathe, work out the tension in my shoulders, and give myself some reassurance. You can do this. You have to. To get your life back. To help her get hers back later. So, I turn the lights off, and I begin.

Alone, in the dark, with no one to see me, to hear me, well, except for that damn camera of Aurelius's, I try to figure out how to grieve. Where to begin? There are so many obvious choices, but as I'm just learning, I decide to start with the easiest ones first.

I choose Boggs. Didn't know him well, but seemed like a decent guy. I don't think he cared for me much, but he was honest with me in the real/not real game. Was there for Katniss, an ally to her. I just sit and think about him, recalling any interactions we had, which were few. I'm trying to think only good things, but I find I've got anger towards him too. Is this okay? I have no idea if I'm doing this right, so I just hold my thoughts of him a minute longer. Never losing my awareness of the camera in the room, such a sickeningly familiar feeling after two Hunger Games, I quietly say his name outloud, softly curse him for dying, gently thank him for helping Katniss, then release him. Goodbye, Boggs.

Okay, one down, about a million to go. Who's next? Thresh, of all people, comes to mind. Again, I feel I didn't even know the guy while he lived and breathed, but his death meant something to me. My mind scans through memories, although these are harder because of the hijacking. I sort through the confusion and focus really on two main points: one, he was a teammate of Rue's, and two, he spared Katniss' life. Thresh, who didn't join up with the Careers, who Katniss said would have been our friend in District 12. If Cato hadn't killed him, well, it's unlikely I'd be here now. So, I thank him for his sacrifice, say his name, a little bolder this time, and let him go. Goodbye, Thresh.

Only two down, and relatively easy ones at that, and I'm already finding my emotional reserves getting depleted. I find my eyes drifting over in the direction of the buzzer. I could end this thing right now, call off this stupid masochistic exercise and get back to my soft bed. Just a few more, I tell myself. Try a few more, then I can consider the buzzer.

It's sickening, the number of people I have to grieve. Mitchell. Darius. Wiress. Chaff. It's like withdrawal. I sit huddled on the floor, hugging my knees to my chest. The more I grieve, the more I forget about the buzzer, forget about the camera. Soon I am talking, yelling, shouting at nobody but the ghosts filling this room with me, remembering the good of each, the bad of each. I know you're not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but I have so much anger, I can't ignore it.

Mags The Morphlings from 6. Castor. Rue. I no longer even think about Aurelius watching me. I don't care about anyone but these people. Their faces writhe before me, showing themselves to me in their moment of death. I fight to see them alive, but often they win.

I enter territory that brings on new horrifying waves of torture. Finnick. It feels like my body is being absolutely ripped open. Prim. I never thought anything could rival the torture the Capitol brought on me, but this does.

Then, my family.

All this time, I've been trying to sort out real and unreal, trying to get my head on straight, but I never took time to really consider the enormity of losing my entire family. It is killing me, destroying, mutilating every part of me, but I have to do it. I take each of my family members in turn, loving them for their strengths, hating them for their weaknesses, holding my memories so gingerly, handling them with the utmost care, screaming out for the loss of their love.

My brother Davon, just a year older than me. His teasing, the constant laughing smile across his face. Fooled our parents by playing the child who could do no wrong, but didn't fool me. Confidence oozing out of him, his easy way with people, girls especially. Man, he was a strong kid. If he couldn't make it out from the fire, well, I'm not surprised hardly anyone else did.

Chesley, my oldest brother. More withdrawn, pale, often sick. Too often. Worked like a dog in the bakery, though, without complaint. Even if District 12 hadn't been destroyed, I'm sure he wanted more from life than could have ever been his fate. He sure deserved more.

My dad. Where do I even begin with him? Devoted husband and father. So appreciative of the simple things in life. Knowing that his life was what he made of it, not some expectation of what should rightly be his. Kind. Always kind. In simple terms: the model of the man I always wanted to be.

That leaves my mom. I know what people say about her, she's a witch. But, she wasn't really, and wasn't always like that. I think at first she loved my dad. I mean, who wouldn't? Then the kids started coming, but she never got what she really wanted – a daughter. She had high hopes when she was pregnant with me, was sure that would be the time. So, I was always a disappointment to her.

A memory flicks into my brain. A memory of telling Katniss a half-truth, talking in the Training Center when we barely knew each other. Telling her that my dad wished he had a daughter instead of a houseful of boys. When it was really my mom that was desperate for a daughter. And I realize I never even told Katniss the rest of the story, that she doesn't know. She doesn't know that my mom's wish did come true. She did have a baby, when I was five, a baby girl. A daughter. Finally, she had what she wanted, and she was able to love all of us. She was happy.

Until the cold morning my mom found her little baby girl dead in her crib. My mother was never the same after that. I guess none of us were. Maybe that's why I liked Prim so much, she reminded me of that little girl I barely knew. So I go ahead and grieve over that too. Grieve over what we could have had – a mom that was happy, who loved us, a little sister. What could have been. Just like with Katniss. What could have been.

And I know then, that she is the next and final person on my list. Katniss. Because I still don't see how she'll get out of this situation. So I think about Katniss in the Training Center, waiting for her verdict all alone. We're both suffering alone at this very moment. A strange parallel in our lives that I don't think we'll ever get to talk about. Not that we'd want to.

I was very firm with Haymitch, that I did not want to know anything about the trial. Well, that was after I begged to be a character witness and was denied. I suppose they were smart to refuse my offer, considering I thought she was a mutt and attempted to murder her, more than once.

There is only one thing about the trial I want to know. The verdict. That's my deal with Haymitch, the one thing I know I can trust him on. He's only to interrupt me in here if the verdict comes in. But, no interruption yet, so I keep doing what I've got to do. This is my time to remember, to cherish, to yell, to cry, to wrap my heart around Katniss and then let her go.

Only, I find I can't do it. I remember Coin's assassination, how Katniss yelled at me to let her go, and how I said I couldn't. That was real. I've got the pearl, the painting, and I guess I must still have that little drop of hope, because I find I just can't grieve her. Not yet.

I don't even realize my eyes are closed. Despite the unfinished business of grieving Katniss, I open my eyes. Totally disoriented. It takes me a few moments to get my bearings, realizing I'm in a corner of the room tucked in a fetal position. I am completely drained of emotion, of energy, of caring. Katniss's pearl is held tightly in my fist. But I also notice something else. My mind is starting to clear out, to feel less tangled and twisted than it has in some time. My heart is slowing, getting closer to what would be considered normal. I slowly hold my hands out in front of me. The shaking is subsiding. It's not like I'm suddenly back to normal, perfect, whole. No, not anything like that. But I do feel something like peace washing through me. I float in it, let it ripple and swell inside of me.

Several clicks, a door opening, and the harsh voice of Haymitch bring that ripple to a screeching halt, floods away every bit of the peace. "You better come out here now, Peeta. They've got a verdict."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: ****If you've stuck with me this far, I just want to give a little explanation. If this were my own story, I wouldn't have made Peeta's recovery take so long, don't think I'd have had the guts to do it that way. He's my favorite character, so I hate having him suffer. But, to fit in within the framework of Collins' story, I had to find what I considered plausible reasons for why his recovery in the Capitol's hospital took so long. It seemed like he was there forever! Anyway, hope you enjoy it, and thanks for reading.**

**I do not own Hunger Games/Catching Fire/Mockingjay.**

I hover just inside the doorway of this tiny padded room. My legs are willing me to move forward, to go with Haymitch. My heart is at odds with this; its obvious intent is to have me stay. Stay here, in this room where I can scream and bellow when I hear the news.

Haymitch is getting exasperated with me, running out of patience as the battle inside me builds up steam. "Look, we made a deal, right? You wanted to know? So, let's move!"

Finally, he just grabs my arm and starts pulling me. Dragging me back through these white corridors to the courtroom. Only instead of entering a court, we walk into this office type of room. Long steel gray table, several big arms chairs set around it, bank of windows overlooking the city. But that's not what captures my attention. It's the television, hanging on the wall to our left. It's on, and that's where I see the courtroom.

"Wait, why here? Why not in there, Haymitch?" I ask, gesturing impatiently to the image of the courtroom on the television.

"Think about it, kid." I only then note the grayness of his face, the pained expression. "Do you really want to be there if, well, you know?"

Of course he's right. Me freaking out in the courtroom if the worst happens would mean a definite return to my former state, a loss of all progress. I just nod, and we both turn our attention to the television. A young blonde reporter is stationed just outside the courtroom, her voice loud and clipped, obviously having a hard time getting her message across what with all the noise. I can barely focus, having just gone through the nightmare of grieving and now this, with no time in between. For a moment I remember that peace that was building inside me, and I try to reclaim it. Not a chance, it's gone.

The waiting is another form of torture. I can't bear the thought of hearing the worst, of Katniss being sentenced to die. In my heart, I know that's probably what she's wishing for, but she's wished for stupid things like that before, and I didn't like it then either. I always told her there was nothing for me in this world without her, and it's still true.

The reporter is suddenly amped up, and I see why. The door to the courtroom is opening, and she's covering her earpiece. She's getting some kind of feed, and I suddenly think I might vomit. I go to steady my hands on a chair in front of me, only then realizing I'm still gripping the pearl tightly in my fist. I'm so afraid of losing it, so afraid of losing the connection to Katniss, that I change my mind and keep my fists as they are.

Then, the blonde speaks. My heart is hammering so hard that my ears can only pick up fragments of what she says: _Cleared of charges. Deemed irrational, possibly insane. Restricted to District 12 until further notice. To be relocated there immediately. Under the supervision of Dr. Aurelius and her mentor, Haymitch Abernathy._

I'm too shocked to move, not even one muscle. I only just register the gasp coming out of Haymitch's mouth, and how he just about topples one of the armchairs in his race to get out, to get to her. It's only too late that I want to grab him, to shake him and ask how this could be possible.

She's alive.

She's alive and is going to stay that way. The tension leaves my body so fast I crumple to the floor with a thud. And I wonder if something's wrong with me because my face feels funny. Twisted, strained, it's so unusual, I put my hand to it to touch it, and only then do I realize. It's a smile. I'm sitting there smiling like a madman. Katniss will live.

As I lie there, smiling, my brain recalls the other words. _Possibly insane_. I don't believe it, so I let that part go. _Restricted to District 12_. Those words had barely registered when the reporter said them, but they come flashing into my brain now. District 12? It's a barren wasteland, burned, turned to ash. As I try to wrap my head around this, my eyes glance up to the television, and it becomes clearer. She'll be going to the Victor's Village. And they show the pictures. Katniss's house. Haymitch's house. My house.

This time my legs and my heart have the same goal, and I race to find Dr. Aurelius. Time to make another request. This one to be the third and final. And the smile doesn't leave my face, because this is the easiest request yet, a formality really. I find my way to his office, but the door is locked, lights off. I find some paper, something to write with, and leave a note for him under his door. Next, I race to my room and burst through the door. Frantically, I gather my things and start to pack. Actually, that's a silly way to put it since there's so little to pack. I've got the pearl, which I have stowed safely back in my pocket. I'll take the painting, the few clothes I have. I didn't leave anything in my confinement "cell", so that's not a problem. My mind wanders back there for a moment, to the grieving. I don't' want to think about it, it was so painful. But it was the right thing to do, and now I'm ready. Ready for Katniss.

I'm just shoving my clothes in a bag when Aurelius walks in. "Got your message, Peeta. You wanted to see me."

"Hey doc." I don't bother to look up, I'm too focused on packing up my stuff. "If you could just sign the release papers, I'm ready to go." I drop the last article and reach to get it. There's no answer from Aurelius, so I turn to him, thinking he just didn't hear me. I start again, tell him again about needing the release papers.

I realize I don't like his expression. Not angry, not mean, but disarmingly neutral. "Uh, is there something wrong?" I ask.

"Peeta, I'm sorry, but this isn't the right time."

"Not the right time to get the papers? Come on, it must just take a minute. Please, I know you're busy, but seriously."

"No, I'm not talking about my own schedule. I'm talking about you. It's not the right time for you."

I can't believe it, am sure I misheard. I just stand there, locking eyes with him. I challenge him. "You're kidding, right?"

"Peeta, it's too soon. I know you want to go, that you've made great progress, but, you're just not ready. Yet." His voice remains maddeningly calm.

"What are you talking about? I'm so much better! I've made a ton of progress. You know what happened today, just a few minutes ago? I smiled! A real one, not just some little half-hearted thing. But a real smile. Come on, you must see that!" I still think this must be his weird doctor humor that I'm just not getting.

"I'm not sure that is what I see. Look down, Peeta," he says, still calm as a lake on a summer day.

So I look down at my arms, my hands, my legs. And my eyes start to see what he sees: everything about my stance says anger. Legs straight, feet about a foot apart. Arms straight at my sides ending in hands balled tightly into fists. Like I'm poised for attack. .

It breaks me.

"I thought…I thought I was better." I'm standing there looking at my fists, unable to unclench them like they have wills of their own. "All that time. All that work."

"That's not lost time, Peeta, not lost work. It just takes time. More than you want to give it, I know. But the time will come that you'll be ready." His manner is gentler with me than it's ever been before, soft. I stand. He waits. Finally I allow him to escort me back to my room, where I flop lifelessly onto the bed. She's alive, I have to remind myself, she's alive and she's home and that was more than I could have hoped for. I just want to be there with her. I just need to be with her.

I think he's gone, so his voice makes me jump. "You know, Peeta, I'm starting a group. Every Tuesday and Friday at 2:30. Different, uh, clients I work with. I think it might be helpful to you. Please consider joining us."

These are my thoughts as I drift off to sleep: No way am I going to your idiotic group. You should lose your license as you have no freaking idea what you're talking about. I'm breaking out of this godforsaken place tomorrow and going home to Katniss. She's alive. Oh God, she's alive.

Morning brings more clarity and less anger. It also brings a new plan. If Aurelius is the guy calling the shots about me, I decide I'd better attend his little group. I can't afford to shut him out.

So Tuesday comes, and I find myself sitting in a straight-back burgundy chair, one of about ten forming a circle. A couple of chairs to my left sits Emma. She's beautiful. I am actually quite distracted by the cascading rings of her fiery orange hair. Emma is the leader of this group, and as lovely as she is, I'm also kind of pissed at her. It's misplaced anger, though, because it's really Aurelius who deserves it. He called it his group, and I joined it only to please him. Then he doesn't even have the decency to show up. Finds some lovely young woman to take his place, puts her in charge. Like I'd have the heart to get up and leave when she's got such a warm smile. So, I sit here, resenting Aurelius and everyone else in this room.

To make matters worse, Emma tells us that we'll start by going around the circle and telling everyone else "our story". Anything and everything we want to say about the crappy things that have happened to us and why we ended up sitting in this circle of misfits. I dread my turn. I realize everyone here probably already knows who I am. Like Maya, who could forget the star-crossed lovers, the whole catalyst for the rebellion that put them here to begin with? I don't want a bunch of these people prying into my life yet again.

Thankfully they're going around the circle the other way and I'll be near the end. I'm so focused on my bitter thoughts that I don't really even listen to the first couple of people. A husband and wife, I think. Bad stuff happened to them, I don't even know what. Instead, I try to construct my little speech for when it's my turn. I'm thinking of something like this:

_Hi everyone, I'm Peeta Mellark, but of course you already know that. I'm sure you watched me in not just one, but two Hunger Games! Of course you know that I have loved Katniss Everdeen, your Mockingjay, for pretty much my whole life and in fact I begged to be sent home to her as soon as she left, but was denied. And, you probably know why. Because of the Capitol. Snow and his torture that just about destroyed my mind. Of course, they also torched my home and murdered my family, leaving me damaged, scarred, furious, unpredictable, resentful, tortured, crazy, alone, and miserable. But, hey to all of you, it was probably just good entertainment, right?_

Now I've got that figured out, I actually kind of look forward to my turn to rant, and I decide to listen to what the others have to say. The person talking is two seats to my right. A man probably in his thirties. He's saying something about some kid getting killed in the Capitol. I listen harder. Okay, it's not just a kid. I find out it's his son. And it wasn't just a random event in the Capitol. He was killed by a silver parachute. His son was 4.

My stomach does a flip. It's a grisly story and needs no describing to me, since, of course, I was there. He's got tears in his eyes, but he just says he's looking for some peace. Yeah, I know what that's like.

Now it's the turn of the person just to my right, and I look at her for the first time. First I notice her face and see she's so young. Probably only about 12 or 13. My eyes travel down and I wonder for a second why the sleeves of her shirt are hanging so loosely, just hanging straight down. It only takes a moment to click, though, as I realize why. She has no arms.

She says in a soft drawl that her name's Rachel, from District 6, and then she goes on to tell her story. "Them Peacekeepers, I wished I woulda had time to stop 'em, but I didn't know they was gonna do it. They just opened fire, ya know. They killed my mom and my dad, and then my brother too. He was tryin' to protect our mom and dad, so he was right in the way and they just shot him. It was all a big mess, I hated seein' it. So, since I don't' have no family anymore, there wasn't nothin' I could do in 6. So, I came here. I'm just trying to get some work, ya know, since I don't have nothin' back home. This is the Capitol, so I'm sure they're lookin' for some people to do some work for them."

She doesn't even mention her arms.

And when it comes to my turn, I still can't shake it. The image of this little girl, with no family, and no arms, coming to the Capitol to work. It's absurd – what kind of work can she do?

I can feel the eyes upon me, waiting for me to speak. So, I begin.

"Hi, my name's Peeta. I'm from District 12. And….a friend told me to find my way home, and I guess, really, that's all I'm trying to do."

A few more people take their turns, but I don't hear them. Instead, I sit and feel the bile rising in my throat.

Arrogant. Self-indulgent. Pampered. Selfish.

These are just some of the words I berate myself with as shame courses through me.

No one here is impressed with my celebrity. And why should they be? While I've been treated to the best medicine and technology the Capitol could offer, being granted special requests so I can indulge in my own personal grieving processes, parading around as a favorite, one half of the beloved star-crossed lovers, well, others have been suffering without any of those comforts, those glories. I'm not the only person who's suffered at the hands of the Capitol or the rebels or just fate. In many ways, I've actually been one of the lucky ones.

That night, I find myself at Dr. Aurelius's door again. I thought I'd made my final request of him, but it turns out there's another. This time I ask him for work. I know I can no longer sit and dwell and obsess and wallow in my own misery. I've looked out the windows, seen crews painting and repairing and planting, trying to rebuild the war-torn Capitol. I tell him I want to help, to be part of the rebuilding for other people, not just for myself anymore.

This is the first request of mine that makes him smile.

The days start to pass more quickly. I'm assigned to planting, and it's satisfying work. Digging, sweating, being outside. I'm on a crew, and I actually find myself laughing with them, enjoying the camaraderie. My body is getting stronger too, and I actually brave a look in the mirror one day and am not repulsed. I'll never look like I did before, but at least it's not a complete stranger looking back at me.

I attend the Tuesday and Friday group. Every Tuesday, every Friday. Get to know the other people there. Talk some. Listen more.

Annie calls me one day, and she tells me she's had a setback. She sounds shaky, confused. I let her talk to me, try to be a good listener. All that time dwelling on myself after she left, well, I kind of lost that link with her, and I don't want that to happen again. So, I make a point of calling her every day after that, of being a friend she can count on.

One day I'm planting a new tree in the City Circle when I look up to see Aurelius standing in front of me. He doesn't say a word, but just holds out a paper for me. It's a little awkward to take it from him, my hands gloved for planting, and I don't want to get it dirty in case it's important or something. But, he just waits for me to take it, so I do. And I only need to read a few words to know what the paper is: I'm going home.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, etc. for my story. I'm so happy people are responding to it, and that you, like me, want to know more of Peeta's story. (At least the way I see it). Enjoy!

**I do not own Hunger Games/Catching Fire/Mockingjay**

I slump here on her front step, surrounded by the utter darkness of night in a place that reeks of death, waiting for the effects of my mistake to wear off.

I knew I couldn't visit her right away. Just show up at her door unannounced, expecting, well, I don't even know what. So, I settled for my second choice, which isn't saying much since here in District 12 I really only have two choices. So, after my train got in and I unloaded things at my house, I went next door. To Haymitch's.

He sat in his kitchen. I stood. He drank. I fired questions at him.

"I would have figured she'd be out hunting a lot, you know, like she used to," I said to him, wondering if I was even talking to a person, since he looked more like a pile of clothes, slumped semi-conscious in a kitchen chair.

"I don't think so," he answered gruffly, gripping his bottle. "I don't think she leaves the house at all." He avoided my eyes, keeping his focus on his shaky hands and liquor supply.

"Well don't you know? I thought you were supposed to be checking up on her!" I was more than a little pissed that he seemed to be dropping the ball with her, leaving her to figure out this new life on her own.

"Why would she want to go out anyway? It's not exactly easy to be around here, you know," he yelled, drink dribbling down his chin. "You don't get it now, Peeta, but you'll figure it out damn soon enough!"

There were about a hundred more things I wanted to say to Haymitch, none of them friendly. But, since he accounts for exactly one-half of the people I know here, I bit my tongue. The news of Katniss staying holed up in her house bothered me tremendously. It reminded me of myself, my isolation in the hospital, and how much better I felt when I started getting outside. My brain started going a million miles a minute, conjuring up some plan to get her outside of that prison of hers. I started envisioning her as a princess, trapped in a tower, and me as her rescuer, her savoir. So immersed in this vision I became, that I decided to actually act on it. To race to her doorstep, barge inside, grab her, and with my love and passion, free her from the sadness of her life. The alcohol was just supposed to be a shot of courage, an aid in making my vision a reality.

It wasn't like Haymitch was eager to share, but he was willing to part with one bottle. That's all it took. One bottle was all that was needed to mangle my recently recovered hijacked brain, send every part of my body into tremors, and leave my head feeling like it would burst open. I guess I was lucky that dizziness was part of the equation, because my attempts to get to her door were definitely made more challenging by the fact I was seeing about three doors in front of me. The other stroke of luck was that she apparently locks her door. Why, I don't know, given that there's no one here in this pit of ash to break in. Unless, of course…well, I tell myself, maybe she figured I would get here one of these days.

I sit in this spot because this is where I fell, overcome with drunkenness. It's not like I've never had alcohol before. There was the very rare glass of wine with my family, a treat on only the most special occasions. And there was that other time, before Katniss and I started the Victory Tour. I'd swiped a few bottles of Haymitch's stuff. Drank myself into blind oblivion in my house, angry and devastated by the distance between Katniss and me. I'm sure it was that experience that got me so angered at her drunken episode when the Quarter Quell was announced. Nonetheless, it's apparent that everything that's happened to my body and my brain has resulted in me being an extreme lightweight, and of course, Haymitch's stuff is not exactly light.

As the drunkenness wears off and my sobriety and sanity return, I can more clearly see that I was pretty much out of my head long before I drank Haymitch's liquor. It was what you might call a "hard day."

Goodbyes in the hospital started things off. Dr. Aurelius presented me with my release papers yesterday, a Tuesday morning, but I didn't feel like skipping out without saying goodbye, so I stuck around for the 2:30 session. I hadn't expected to feel the pain of separation again, like I did with Annie, but it was there. Hugs, well-wishes, tears, advice. Requests to stay in touch. These were all definitely real, no question about it.

After the goodbyes, it was time to gather my things, for real this time, and board a train to District 12. Of course the train wasn't exactly overflowing with passengers. No one but me going to 12, a dozen or so people going on to 13. But, I had a lot of unexpected stuff with me. Since there are no shops open in 12 and all supplies come on the train, Dr. Aurelius made sure I was supplied with enough goods to keep me going for my first couple of weeks. Apparently I will have to be placing calls and orders for more goods every so often until the day comes that shopkeepers set up in 12. From what I've seen here so far, I'm not getting my hopes up that it'll be any time soon.

How can I describe what it looked like when I stepped off the train? Bleak? That doesn't do it justice by a long shot. Desolate? Too nice. Rotting, stinking, horrific, Hellish, devastating? Too gentle. Basically, there is no way to describe it. I found myself standing there, stock still, looking at the gray barren waste before me. I started to squint. Pressing my eyelids closer together in hopes of changing what I was seeing. Creating a vision, hijacking myself to see what wasn't there. Turning gray to green, death to life. .

It was impossible, and soon I was choking on dust and ash and tears. I had thought, on the train, that maybe when I got here I'd head to the square, face the ghosts of my family's home right away. But it became obvious pretty fast that I will have to wait. I'm stronger than I was, but not strong enough for that.

I was surprised to see people in 12. They are the "clean-up crew" – now there's a job that takes courage. A couple of the guys from the crew helped me cart all the stuff to my house. I recognized them as guys from the Seam, but we didn't exchange a lot of conversation. Really, in this situation, what is there to be said?

Walking into the Victor's Village again was like a strange mind trip. One foot standing in the desolation, the other foot on living green grass. The paradox of it was just confusing me, and then I saw her house. Knowing she was probably just inside. So close to me. I just froze in my tracks, gaping open-mouthed at her house, feeling like a buffoon, because I'd made a decision to not go there right away, but the temptation was so powerful. However, the guys with my stuff had only one idea in mind, get this stuff unloaded at my house, the sooner the better, so the decision was made for me. Probably a good thing.

Once inside, I wandered around, feeling like a visitor. I took in everything around me: Prints on the walls. Upholstered furniture. A tasteful floral rug. All the features of a house, but is it a home? My home? I don't know that I've ever really thought of it that way, that it's mine. Sure, I lived here for awhile, but I lived here alone. The space above the bakery, with my family, well, that always felt like my real home.

It only took a few minutes before I had to get out. Get out of that strange space, the aloneness of it, and find some company. So, I went to Haymitch's, and that's what led to my current condition.

I don't even know the hour now. The middle of the night, I suppose. It's like a different world from what I knew. No lights except our own, no sounds, no smells, no movement. I sit up straighter, try standing to test my balance. Feeling steady enough, I decide to head home, to give the lonely, alien house a second try. I glance back at her house, a sigh of regret escaping my lips.

My house, as it turns out, is no better this time around. I try sleeping, but sleep doesn't come. I try reading, doesn't work. I study the tile floor in the bathroom, the blues and greens recalling water. Brings on some nausea clearly related to my earlier indulgence. So I go back outside, to this little piece of life in a sea of death. If only there was other life around here, somewhere else that offered hope rather than emptiness. It takes me quite a while of considering this, so long that the very first glimpses of dawn start to lighten the sky, before I find myself forming a plan. There is somewhere else here in 12 that has life, somewhere I've never actually had the courage to go. Afraid of silly things, like insects and animals. But that was before my fears changed, that was before I needed the affirmation that things actually live around here. I throw on some boots, and with just the shell of a plan, grab my shovel as well.

The woods. It's not pleasant getting there, having to walk through the remains of peoples' live, but I stay focused on the goal. By the time I reach the now deactivated fence, I just want to run for the woods and not look back. I see a gap in the fence and head straight for it. Being in the trees, it's a sudden relief, providing some hope in a hopeless place. The shovel in my hand is a reminder of the plan I concocted quickly in my head, and as I walk, I look around in the dim morning light for just the right plants. Plants that will add life, just like Annie said: _sometimes life springs unexpectedly from the ashes_. I need the new life. Katniss needs it. I gaze around at the different trees and plants, without blooms, dormant, but recognizable nevertheless. So many hours making sketches and paintings for Katniss's plant book, and I now recall their names effortlessly. Pine. Alder. Chokecherry. Elderberry. Primrose.

Primrose. I had never thought of it. I lean down, gently touch a green stalk out of which flowers will bloom soon. I realize there are primrose plants all around me. Even in their dormancy, there is a beauty to them, just like the girl named for them.

It's hard work, unearthing them. Their roots are so bound to the earth here. I have to scale back from my original plan of a dozen, and settle instead for five. Then comes the challenge of getting them back to the Victor's Village. I look around for a log or something, a huge piece of bark, to use as a skid to drag them, but no luck. The sun is rising above the horizon now, and I don't want to delay, so I do it the long way. Carry two all the way back to the fence, come back for the other three. It's hard work, but it feels good, helps me focus, sweats the rest of the alcohol out of my system, and clears my mind. Although I'm physically exhausted from the labor, I know I have a better self to present to her now than the one yesterday.

It takes a while to get everything back – plants, shovel, me. I finally just walk to my house, get the wheelbarrow, wheel it back to the fence, and get the plants to Katniss's that way. Once there, I start to work. Select the side of her house that's nothing but long lank grass. Start digging a flower bed. I'm so involved in my work, I don't even hear her footsteps.

"You're back," she says. I almost jump, but I try to keep it smooth. Her tone is matter-of-fact; I can't tell if it's good or bad that I'm back. Trying to keep it light, to not betray the desires that are just about wrecking me, I simply explain about how I just got released and even make a crack about her being in touch more often with Dr. Aurelius.

It's then that I turn to face her, to really see her. Our eyes meet, and neither of us looks away. I see her studying me, looking me over, but I can't draw any conclusion about what she thinks. As for me, I'm immediately overwhelmed by her vulnerability. She's so slight, pale, wispy, not strong. Somehow in my anticipation of this moment, in my dreaming of it, I'd tossed reality aside and imagined a healthy Katniss standing there looking at me. How stupid of me.

I feel a frown forming on my face, and am immediately mad at myself for it. I know she sees it, registers it, and she probably thinks I'm disappointed. But that's not it at all. It's just that I recognize her face, the look that she carries, that masks all her strengths. Because I remember it in myself. And I hurt so much for her because I know the long painful journey that she still has ahead of her. I resolve that at least she won't have to go through it alone.

She's suddenly flustered, trying to work out the mess of her hair, looking entirely too self-conscious. I'm about to tell her that she misunderstands, that I don't care how she looks, I still want her, but then she asks what I'm doing. I explain about the plants, how I dug them up for Prim to plant along the side of the house. I don't say the other part – that they are also for us.

A range of expressions flash across her face: confusion, followed by recognition, rage, and finally approval. But then she's gone. Gone into her house, and I don't know what to think. What am I supposed to do? Chase after her? Go home? Yell her name til she comes out? Not having a clue what just happened, I decide to just keep on as I was. Dig the holes, put in the plants, water them. I had hoped she'd help me. Maybe she still will. So, I work slowly. Very, very slowly.

I am just finishing, having extended the amount of time as long as possible, when a woman appears. Greasy Sae, I recognize her from before. We exchange a few words of greeting. She explains that she helps Katniss with fires, meals. This is a more hopeful sign. Haymitch may have completely cast her aside, but at least she's got someone here with her. Not wanting to intrude on them, I head home, put away the wheelbarrow and shovel, and clean myself up.

The burning question: What is the appropriate amount of time to wait until I see her again? My favorite answer: about three seconds. Sadly, that's destined to be unreal. I know I have to wait longer, to give her space. I think back to her expression, the way she looked me over. Can I read anything into that? Interest? Caring? Longing? I can't make anything of it, and I conclude that I should just be happy that it wasn't fear or anger. I suppose this could be looked at as a step in the right direction.

The rest of my day is a wash. I try different tasks, find myself completely unable to focus on any of them. I sit in front of my painting of Katniss, immersing myself in the way she feels. But, knowing the real Katniss is so near, I can't settle for the feeling of a painting. I want the real thing.

I have to face it. I was desperate to be closer to her, thought that would be better. But, now that I am, I know it's really not close enough. Not for me, at least. My desire for her, my need for her, is filling me completely, keeping me awake, making me restless. It's unrealistic, unfair to expect it to be reciprocal, that she's ready for me or ever will be. I can't help feeling the way I do, but what can I really expect from her, after what I became, what she must see me as? I know I'm not that monster, but I need some help in knowing how to convince Katniss of that.

I give my daily call to Annie. The purpose: to see how she's doing, see how she's coping. But, before I know it, the conversation has turned completely around, and it's all about me. I feel bad about that, but Annie doesn't seem to mind. "Just do whatever you did before, Peeta. It's the small things, the little gestures of caring. When you all lived there before, and you were taking care of each other, what did you do?" And I know what to do next. How to have a reason to see Katniss, and how to help her see me as I am now.

I bake bread.

Although it's something I've done my whole life, something that was part of who I used to be and who we were together, it feels like a beginning.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thank you again, for reading, for reviewing, for your lovely comments. It's a long story – thank you for sticking with it!**

**I do not own the Hunger Games/Catching Fire/Mockingjay**

I rise before dawn the next morning and begin, the steps ticking effortlessly through my brain from years of practice: measure the ingredients, work the dough, wait for the dough to rise, carefully form the loaves, brush with butter, bake til golden brown. The familiarity is soothing. It's like the comfort of being on solid ground, doing something you don't have to even think about. I make a mental note to suggest something like this to Katniss.

While the loaves bake, I shower. I know it was only one bottle of liquor, but I scrub myself thoroughly to insure there is not even the remotest possibility of smelling like Haymitch.

The loaves are out of the oven, I'm clean. So, what am I waiting for? I take a couple of deep breaths, steady myself, then embark on the extremely short walk to her house. Smoke rises from her chimney, so I can assume she's up. Then the question – do I knock on her door or just walk on in? I choose to knock, making the safer choice. It's Greasy Sae who answers, and I see Katniss curled up on the couch in front of the fire.

Oops. I'm staring again. It's just that when I see her, something's different. Yesterday she was disheveled, her appearance fragile, disorganized. The change is apparent immediately – clean, neat hair in her usual braid, a fresh change of clothes. I wonder what accounts for the transformation, hoping, despite myself, that maybe it has something to do with me. Then I note the redness around her eyes and know not everything has changed.

When she sees me, something shifts over her face as well. Her expression, while I wouldn't quite go so far as to describe it as warm and friendly, is at least interested. Curious. .

We exchange hellos, and then I spot something else different. Curled up next to her is a mangy yellow cat.

"That couldn't possibly be…" I begin.

"Yeah, it's him," she says. "Buttercup, you know, he was…" but she still can't say her name, gets flustered. So, I just nod to show her I understand, that she doesn't have to finish.

Greasy Sae fills in the blanks: Buttercup apparently walked all the way from 13, and he and Katniss have made peace. Remembering what this cat used to be like around Katniss, well, I can't help but smile, because it's just so completely unbelievable. That there could be love and companionship where there once was hate. My spirits rise.

Thanks to Buttercup, the atmosphere in the room has brightened, and I take the bread to the counter, start slicing it. Again, the familiarity brings comfort, although so much has changed. Standing here in her kitchen, slicing bread, making conversation. It's like creating a living memory. We've done this a million times, and yet it's all new at the same time.

We have breakfast, find small things to talk about. Nothing heavy, nothing intense. Except when Katniss mentions her mother. She called her earlier this morning, but isn't able to tell more as her words choke off. I offer words of encouragement, but leave out the hundred or so other words I want to say. The time isn't right, and also we're not alone.

All too soon, it becomes clear that our breakfast is done, visiting hours are over, and I'm to leave. Katniss is starting to look worn out and is withdrawing from us. I take the cue, knowing I can't push anything right now. I don't want to go, but know I have to.

"I'll be back tomorrow. I'll bring bread!" I say, and I turn to go. I wince when I think of how it came out, like I wouldn't want to see her until then. I'm about to add, "but it can be before then if you want," but it sounds lame in my brain, and it's too late now. I turn and give her a half-hearted smile and go home. Despite wishing I was still with her, I can't help feeling that in this relatively short time, some progress has been made. It gives me strength for the rest of my day.

My life falls into something of a pattern. Rising early in the morning, baking bread, breakfast with Katniss and Greasy Sae, sometimes even Haymitch. Just like that first morning, we always keep the conversation light. There are tiny indications that maybe Katniss is losing her wariness of me. She smiles at my attempts at wit, asks me questions, tells me some things about her own life, but keeps her distance from me. Not just a physical distance, but an emotional one too. She is always remembering, I fear, the ways in which I hurt her.

The worst is when we're talking, often about things that are relatively benign, but I'll notice her hands creeping up to the scars on her neck, the scars from when I attacked her. It just gets worse when she becomes aware that she's doing it, because then there's a heavy layer of guilt heaped on all the other stuff. I always thought she'd be able to forgive me, to trust me again, but now I'm not so sure.

About two weeks after my arrival in 12, I stand in my kitchen, looking down into pans full of fallen, lumpy, congealed goo. Bread that for some reason didn't turn out. There's a knock on my door, and I figure it must be Haymitch, so I just call "Come in!"

I keep staring at the ruined dough, until I realize the soft tread has to be hers. I look up, and she says, "You didn't come over this morning. I…we were worried about you." Her eyes dart away from mine.

"Well, I kind of bombed out with the bread this morning," I say, gesturing to the lumpy mess in my bread pans.

She pauses, crinkling her eyebrows, and something almost like a smile plays across her face. "You know, Peeta, you can come over anytime. You don't just have to be bearing bread."

"Oh, okay," I answer, pleasantly surprised.

"I like…I like seeing you," she says, her voice soft and raspy.

This is new. This is hope. I offer to make her tea, gesture to one of my chairs for her to sit in. She was willing to bridge the gap between us, so I decide to do the same.

"You know, you're welcome to come over here any time as well. Day, night, it doesn't matter." I know I'm pushing my luck here a bit, but I go on. "It's nice to have someone here with me, well, you here with me. It's so…..quiet." I'm bumbling, but hopefully I get the message across.

"Yes, quiet," she says, and I realize her house must feel even quieter, because it was a house she shared with others, her family who has left her in one way or another. We sit, drink tea.

Her presence in my house fills the place, warms the cold empty spaces. She's in my house. I'm so wonderfully almost giddy about the fact that she's really in my house! Suddenly I want to tell her everything, show her the painting and the pearl. But, I sense it's still too soon, that it would overwhelm her. But there is one thing I want to tell her; I don't think she knows about it, and I think it'll make her happy.

"Katniss, there's some good news I wanted to tell you. About Annie. She's going to have a baby." I suddenly worry that calling up this association with Finnick may be too much for her, and so I wait, holding my breath.

Silence, as it sinks in. Then,"A baby? The father is…" she starts to ask.

"Yeah, Finnick. Finnick's baby. She's doing a lot better lately. Well, obviously it comes and goes." I pause, but add, "We became friends, back at the hospital."

"Oh, that's….." and she can't find a way to describe it, like she's working it all through her mind.

"It's good, Katniss. It's good for her," I say softly.

She nods, and I see the conflict of emotions in her. Happiness in the new life, sadness in the fact the baby will never know its amazing father.

There's more to say, but neither of us can manage at the moment. So, we just sit in silence, sip the last drops of tea. Finally Katniss says she needs to go. She stands. I stand. She walks to the door. I follow. My arms don't wait for approval from my brain as I reach for her, to hug her goodbye. She doesn't resist, but doesn't fall into my embrace exactly either. It's short, and there's a distance in it.

"You still don't trust me," I murmur, not entirely able to mask the hurt.

She doesn't deny it, takes a moment and then replies, "If it makes you feel any better, I don't trust anyone, including myself."

She leaves, and I worry my impulsive embrace pushed her away instead of bringing her closer. I curse myself as I walk into the kitchen, then spot my ruined bread loaves. I dump them into the trash, slamming the pans against the trash can in frustration, but then I remember something. My dad's words. Said so many times over so many years: "Most days, the bread rises, turns beautifully golden, and fills your belly. Some days, though, it falls flat. You savor the first kind of day, let go of the second."

Finally, I realize he was talking about more than bread.


	8. Chapter 8

**I still do not own HG/CF/MJ. Wish I did. They are fabulous books.**

I'm not at my best the next morning, as I carry a loaf of warm bread to Katniss's. The victim of a troubled sleep filled with bad dreams and excessive worries. It was actually one of those mornings when I was thankful for the approaching dawn., thankful to not have to try to sleep anymore.

I decided last night that although our level of trust is not where I hoped it would be, the best thing to do is stick to the routine. So, I rose before dawn and baked the bread. In addition, one batch of cheese buns.

Just before reaching her door, I spot something yellow. One of the primroses has bloomed. Small, delicate blooms, and impulsively I gently break one off. A peace offering?

Standing on the front step, waiting for the door to open, it actually strikes me as such a cliché. The hopelessly lovesick boy waiting outside the home of the girl of his dreams, bearing food and flowers. Of course, in the usual telling of a story like this, the characters do not have as many scars as we do. She answers the door, and ushers me in, her disposition impossible to read. Good news awaits, though, as I note we are alone – no Greasy Sae, no Haymitch. Even Buttercup is nowhere to be seen.

She is pleased with the flower and puts it in water. We eat bread, just like any other morning, make conversation. Katniss is somewhat distracted, though, something clearly on her mind. She picks at her food, even the cheese buns, drums her fingers on the tabletop. I can't help feeling I know why. I start to speak, but she interrupts.

"Peeta, I've been thinking about something you said yesterday." Damn, here it comes. I want to apologize, that I was rash, lost control of my impulses, forgot she needed space, it won't happen again. But, she continues. "When you told me about Annie and the baby. His….Finnick's baby. I don't want to forget him, Peeta. Not him, not any of them."

My brain completely shifts gears, her words a surprise to me. Once again, I've assumed that everything in her world revolves around me, that our distance when she left yesterday was about me. But, rather, it's Finnick that's been weighing on her mind, my news about the baby. I chastise myself. "You won't, Katniss," I reassure her. "Of course you won't. We'll always think of them, remember them."

"No, well, I mean yes, but also no. I just…I already feel them slipping away. You told me Annie's having a baby, and in my mind, I tried to call up a little, miniature version of Finnick. But, I'm losing him already."

I don't know what to say to this, how to find the words to help her through. But, I know what she means. The faces, the images, falling into harder to access corners of our brains.

"So, I have this idea. I want to make….well, a book. Kind of like a memory book, I guess. I want them all to be in it, and it has to be soon, before they're lost. Not just their names and faces, but the little things that made up who they…were. I thought maybe you would want…want to help me with it."

I pause as the idea sinks in. A book that will keep all the people we lost with us. An offer to work together. A chance to heal together. "I think it's brilliant," I tell her.

"It's just that I need supplies. Paper, you know, and things for you. If you're willing, to do the art for it. Sketches. Of them." Her eyebrows rise, worry seeping into every inch of her face. As if I'd say no.

"Of course. I think it's exactly the right thing."

She tells me she's been talking to Dr. Aurelius quite a bit lately, more news to me, and she'd like to ask him for the supplies, but is worried he won't find them necessary.

"Oh, don't worry about that. Aurelius is pretty good about responding to requests, even if he seems doubtful of them to begin with." She looks at me questioningly, but I just tell her he helped me with some things and leave it at that.

The next train brings the supplies, Aurelius following through as promised. And we get started right away. It's grueling. And necessary.

I don't tell her about the grieving process I already put myself through. I don't care to ever talk about that to anyone. But, as I go through it all again, I feel enormous relief to go through it with someone else this time.

She writes, I sketch or paint. We recall the small details of them, the little things they did, the things that made them unique. After about a week, we are working on the book when she says, "I think there's someone else we need to invite to do this with us." She doesn't even have to say his name, and I know she is right. Haymitch resists at first, in his usual gruff fashion. But suddenly there he is telling us a story of Mags, and we put it in the book. Even his walls start to come down through this book, and the three of us sit together working long hours recalling, remembering. Like a family.

One day I tell Katniss that I need a page for my mom. I know she never liked my mother, had her reasons, so I'm prepared for her less than enthusiastic response. So I tell her, I want the page to be for my mom and my baby sister. Her attitude shifts, she looks puzzled. Before she can ask, I tell her what I never told her before, and when I start the sketch, Katniss sits beside me. It is tough work, painstaking and painful, to recall the small details of my baby sister's face, her tiny body. I sketch, Katniss watches, the room silent but for the scrapes of my pencil, our breathing.

Sometimes we work on the book at my house. On one of these occasions, the phone rings, and I answer it while Katniss works on a page about Wiress. It's Emma, and we talk for a few minutes. She wants to know how I'm doing, and she tells me about everyone from the therapy group. Tells me that Rachel did get a job, assisting a teacher in one of the Capitol's schools. I picture her doing that, her positive spirit, her practicality and lack of self-pity, and I know she'll be great at it. When I hang up, I feel Katniss' eyes on me.

"Did I hear you say Emma?" she asks, forced nonchalance in her voice. "Isn't that someone who works with Dr. Aurelius?"

"Yeah, she was the leader of that therapy group I was in. She just wanted to know how I was doing," I answer casually as I walk back towards the table, aware of Katniss's eyes on me.

"Aurelius mentioned her to me a few times. Told me she's really beautiful, really a knockout." She pauses, then as I don't say anything, she turns combative. "Or did you not notice?"

"Sure, I noticed," I say and see the hurt, the feeling of inadequacy in her eyes. I just keep my eyes steady on her, take a step closer, and add softly, "But, I thought you'd know by now, no one has ever really made a lasting impression but you."

Maybe the step forward was a mistake, because suddenly her eyes are filling with hate and the desire to kill me. The room shifts. I'm in a cave. Katniss is there with me, in fact in a sleeping bag with me. Somehow we're standing in a sleeping bag. It doesn't make sense, my vision totally messed up. But, all I know, all that seems to really matter is that it is extremely dangerous, sharing a sleeping bag with someone who's out for your blood. It's cold in here, like ice, but somehow I'm sweating, my heart thumping out of my chest. I must protect myself, must destroy her before she destroys me. She's looking at me with red, gleaming eyes. She lifts a knife, and I know she wants to kill me. I can only survive by fighting back, by fighting her. I raise my arms to attack, and she screams.

Words are yelled at me, but I can't dechiper them. I shake my head, confusion swallowing me up. For a second, the cave melts away and I'm in my house. I see Katniss's face, no longer aggressive, but instead filled with fear, and I start to lower my convulsing hands. But, just as quickly, she morphs again, this time into a mutt, scales on her back, fire coming from her mouth. I prepare to attack.

Only, something stops me. A click in my head, something telling me this isn't real. I find something to grip, the edge of a table. I place all my tension in my hands holding the table, so that it can release its hold on my head. I grip so hard, my hand muscles start to jerk and spasm. I close my eyes, attempt to breathe, although any breath I have is dangerously shallow. When I open my eyes, I still see a mutt in front of me, but I can see the edges, her edges. The borders around her have a shiny, unreal quality. She transforms again, into a horror-stricken girl who is frozen with fear. Although no sound comes out, I mouth a word to her. Wait. Please wait. Oddly, incomprehensibly, she does. She stands, waiting. Slowly, my breaths become slower, deeper. The room becomes my room, the edges of everything regain their normalcy.

Releasing my grip on the table, I sink into the chair beside me. Although I don't dare meet her eyes, I know she still hasn't moved. I drop my head onto the table, spent, defeated. I am terrified beyond wit's end. I'd made it weeks without one of these attacks. Of course I hadn't gone so far as to convince myself that they were gone for good, but to have one here and now, with her so close, it is crushing. Every bit of progress I've made since the torture, every single bit, seems gone. Wasted. Destroyed. I know now that I've lost her forever, that she could never, should never trust me.

I jump when I feel a hand on my shoulder. Her hand. "Peeta?" Her voice is soft, gentle. She crouches down beside me. "You've changed."

"Yes! You knew that already!" I spit at her, my head still buried in my arms. "That's the whole goddamn problem, that I've changed!"

"No, I mean since then. It's not like before. You mastered it. You stopped yourself."

"I didn't master anything. I totally flipped out there! I could have hurt you, Katniss!" Anger at myself is welling up in me, anger at her for not comprehending the danger of the situation. "I don't even know why it happened!"

"It was our first games." Her words are soft, almost like they are just wisps of breath.

"We were in the cave together. You said the same thing then, about no one else making a lasting impression. That's why it happened, Peeta."

I search around for an understanding of the memory. "But I can't just flip out like this every time someone says something from before," I say. I feel hollow inside, gutted like a fish. "I just….I just hadn't had an episode like this for so long. I'm so sorry, Katniss. I didn't want this to happen again."

"But they don't happen every time. Other things we've said, things we've done together. They haven't done this to you. You're so much better. Actually, much better than I am."

And here she is, twisting this horrible event into something where I'm the good guy and she's the problem. Finally, I look at her.

"I failed," I say, not bothering to hide the tearstains on my face from anger, horror, grief.

And this time it is her that comes to me. She extends her arms, wraps them around me. But it's not like last time, when it was awkward and quick. This time she pulls me to her, holding us together, so close. "No, Peeta. You won."

How could she take my lowest moment, my most monstrous self, and see something good in it? I'm so shaken, so confused. But, in her arms I feel something new between us. It takes me a moment, and then I know.

It feels like trust.


	9. Chapter 9

**I do not own Hunger Games/Catching Fire/Mockingjay. Enjoy, and thank you for reading!**

Good news comes in the form of a phone call from Annie. She is now the proud mother of a tiny baby boy, a boy with the beauty of his father and mother, with eyes the color of the sea. She promises to send a photograph, and of course he is named for his father, although she calls him Finn. Her call fills me with all good things: hope, peace, joy.

I share the happy news with Katniss, and although she smiles, she remains quiet. I return to the table, where we were sitting together when the phone rang. I had been telling her all my ideas to expand the flower garden alongside her house. She is still touching one of my sketches of the garden, but her eyes are elsewhere.

"What is it, Katniss?" I ask her.

She seems resistant to tell me, so I know I just have to wait, that the words will come in time. I pick up my pencil again, and she finally speaks. "I'm happy for Annie. It's wonderful, really. It's just…it's just that I've always had a hard time…with babies. I know that sounds funny. I mean, I've liked being around babies. But the idea of a baby. In this world," and her voice trails off.

I stop drawing, reach my hand out, rest it on hers. There is no more fear of touching between us now. A brush of hair off my face, a caress of her shoulder. It's natural.

"But it's a better world now, don't you think?" She must know. No more Snow. No more reaping. No more Games.

"I suppose," is all she says, but the remainder of the day she seems lost in her own darkness. I don't know how to pull her out. Ever since we started working on the book, and ever since she began to trust me again, we have both been healing faster. There are changes in Katniss, maybe unnoticeable to the average person, but I see them. Adding a pound of weight onto her too-lean frame, going outside to walk and enjoy the air not just to get from one house to another.

Her eyes, though, are still full of weariness, and often her body seems depleted of the strength I know she has. But, I know that she is healing. I remember Aurelius's words to me, that it just takes time. A lot of time.

Sometimes, on the best days, we laugh together. Like the time one of Haymitch's geese, which he is now raising since his liquor ran out, was dive-bombing Katniss as she tried to walk to my house. I was sitting just inside, when I heard her screaming and cursing. I ran out the door, and watched this absolutely homicidal goose targeting Katniss, as she ran full-speed for my door. She finally made it to me, I grabbed her, and we fell into my house, literally, as I kicked the door closed behind us. We lay on the floor, side by side, the laughter first bursting from me, and then Katniss, who couldn't stay angry at the insane goose and had to laugh too. Just as our laughter died down and we found ourselves lying next to each other on my floor, the pounding of a fist on my door and Haymitch's bellow of "What the hell did you do to my goose?" got us started all over again. We still laugh about that one.

I look out the window now, surprised to see yet another spring storm rolling in, and spot Katniss returning from hunting. Instead of waiting for her to come here, I go to her house and let myself in, which has become the norm for us.

Her mood is gloomy as the day outside, and I notice her game bag is empty. I decide not to ask her about that and instead, she has news for me.

"I don't know if you remember the Comstocks? They were from the Seam. Anyway, they're moving back." As she speaks, I can't tell whether she sees this as good news or bad.

"Moving back? To 12? Are you sure they're not just here helping with the cleanup?"

"No, apparently they're rebuilding. Their daughter, Saven, she was a couple of years behind us in school." She pauses, then adds, "They won't be the only ones. They say others are coming back too. Looks like it won't just be us anymore."

I can't tell how Katniss feels, but then, I'm not sure how I feel about it either. Having people around, well, I know from my time in the hospital how crucial that is, what a difference it makes. I know it will be good for us. But, in all honesty, the news also brings out the selfish side in me, the side that is content in this little insular world of just us.

The next afternoon, I am sitting at my table absent-mindedly sketching and listening to yet another downpour outside, when I am startled by screams and curses again. For a moment, I laugh to myself, thinking the lunatic goose is back.

I get outside, but no goose. I search for the source of the outburst. Through the driving rain I just make out splashes of colors flying through the air – pink, yellow, lavender – and a hunched figure kneeling on the ground by the primrose garden.

I race across the sodden grass, feel my stomach drop as I become aware of who the figure it. As I approach, I see color not just darting through the air but strewn along the ground around her. Primroses.

"Katniss?" I keep my voice calm, approach slowly, set a soft hand on her thin shirt, soaked through with rain. She doesn't respond, but keeps hacking away at the primroses, violently cutting off blooms, cursing at them, tossing them all around her.

"Stop, Katniss," I tell her, and press more firmly on her shoulder.

"I just…have to finish…" she spurts out, her voice choked, words not forming normally.

"No, Katniss, please stop."

"I have to finish!" she yells again at me. She is taking huge gasping breaths. I reach around and put my hands on both of her arms, not too tightly. I don't want her to feel trapped. I rub them, make soothing sounds, try to calm her.

"Come on now, Katniss, it's time to stop," and I slowly and gingerly reach a hand forward, stop her cutting hand, remove the clippers from her grasp.

She turns and looks at me; she's the very image of a wild animal caught in a trap. Fear and defensiveness in her eyes, which are focused on me, but I know it's not about me. Not this time. I maintain my calmness, my steadiness, hoping it will transfer through my hands and into her.

In time, her gasps subside, her eyes become less fearful, but as she turns and takes in the destruction of her primroses, she is overcome with intense remorse. "What…what have I done?"

"It's okay, Katniss." I know I can't tell her the primroses will be fine, that new blooms will grow, since she did a pretty thorough pruning job on them. But I tell her what is true. "In the spring, just wait, they will come back, prettier than ever."

And as we hunch together in the rain, I ask her to tell me what happened. Through bits and pieces of disjointed, choked words, I get the gist of it: she came out to cut a primrose for a vase, picked the prettiest one, but cut it too short to be of any good. So, she tried again. After another failed attempt, she just lost control, started cutting off every bloom in the garden. She decided to destroy them, she says, like she destroyed Prim, and 12, and, in her mind, pretty much all of Panem.

"What brought this on, Katniss?" I try to get her to look at me, and she glances furtively at me now and again, but won't stay focused on my eyes.

"It's just the people, moving back here," she says.

"Why does that bother you?" I ask, not understanding.

"Because, those people, the Comstocks? They have nothing, Peeta! They're rebuilding a life with absolutely nothing. And do you know why they have nothing? Because of me! Because of the damn Mockingjay who forced them out of their homes and made them return with nothing!"

"Katniss, you didn't drop those bombs." She has heard this line before. Not just from me. From Haymitch. From Greasy Sae. This is something she cannot forgive herself for, that the destruction of our district is a result of her actions.

"I just….," and her gasping is increasing again, "I just feel like when they come back, and I see them with nothing, I'll just never feel….never feel…" and I don't know what, because she can't say it.

I think back to yesterday, the empty game bag. That she's been dwelling on this since then, probably saw the Comstocks on the way out, never even went hunting. "Katniss, you could have talked to me, you know. That you felt that way about the people coming back…"

"Maybe I would have if I had realized I felt that way!" My hands still caress her arms, keep her steady, and she doesn't resist that, just my words.

"I'm sorry," she finally says. " I just totally lost it."

"Hey, this is me you're talking to. You don't ever need to apologize for losing it to me." And she knows. I reach to her face, pull her gently so she sees me. "Katniss, you don't have to do this alone. You never have to do this alone." She nods, turns away, and picks up a yellow primrose, it's delicate curves now flattened by the rain, runs it though her hand, lets it drop back to the ground.

"They were so beautiful."

"Yes, they were."

She breathes out, and lets her body sink back against mine, and I wrap my arms around her.

It's then that I discover our next problem. She is shivering, tremors running throughout her whole body. Not just from the trauma, but from being completely soaked from the storm. The color has drained from her face, her body is ice cold.

I lead her inside her house, holding her close with my arm around her waist, hearing the drip, drip of her clothes forming puddles on the tile. I set her in a kitchen chair, retrieve towels from the bathroom. When I return, her teeth are chattering.

"Here, let me help you with your wet clothes, Katniss. You're going to be sick if you stay in these." I try to help her with her shirt, but she shakes her head, her words blocked. "Come on, we've been through worse together. You don't have to hide anything from me, and besides, it's not like I haven't seen you before," I say, keeping my voice soft and steady.

She shakes her head, and her eyes have that look of fear again. ""Not like this, you haven't," she says. Her voice is so soft, so weak. And I remember my revulsion at my own scarred body, understand her panic.

I make a quick decision and hope it's the right one. I stand, move slightly away from her, and start to remove my shirt. She has a look of worry on her face, clearly misunderstanding my intent. She looks away, but I tell her she has to look at me. When she does, her expression changes. She frowns as she studies me, gnaws on her lip. Slowly, tentatively she rises and reaches a slender arm out to touch a spot on my chest. Her hands may be like ice, but the sensations running through me from her touch are anything but cold.

"These are all from the fire?" she asks, gingerly caressing a scar, still frowning. She doesn't know all my stories yet.

I try to ignore the wild sensations racing through me from her touch. "The fire, Snow, the Games, a poor defenseless mirror," I respond. Her eyebrows arch up, but I just say "Don't ask."

We stand there facing each other, her hand still on my chest, my heart feeling like it might just stop in my chest.

"We used to give comfort to each other. Couldn't we do that again?" I ask, my voice a whisper.

She looks away, and slowly removes her hand, dropping it by her side. But finally she nods. "But I'm still not ready for, well, …"her voice trails off. "If you could just….I'll go take these off and change into something warm. I promise," she says as she gestures upstairs. She's not ready for me to see her scars, and I get that, I really do. So I tell her I'll just wait down here until she's ready.

When I hear the soft creak of her bedsprings, I walk upstairs. On the way up, Buttercup is on his way down. He gives me a chilly look with his green eyes, as if to complain that he is being displaced tonight. I don't feel sorry for him.

She is snuggled tight under the covers, and she watches me as I walk in. I'm wondering what to do now about my wet pants, decide to just remove them so I'm just in my shorts, and climb in. She is bundled up, and I'm thankful for it, as she is still shivering a little.

I tell her she needs to be warmed up, her hair is still so wet, and I make a space for her with my arm stretched along her pillow. She slides into the spot, and I wrap my arm around her to hold her tight as she curls into me.

Before settling her head completely onto its proper spot on my chest, she asks "Will it hurt?" and I know she's thinking of all the scars I've accumulated since the last time we were like this. But, it's far from hurting.

"No. Never." She finally rests her head completely, and we lie together like this. I stroke her wet hair, rub warmth into her arm, her side. I am careful to be gentle too, because of all of the scars she won't show me.

In the silence, in the dark, I think back to the cave, our sharing of the sleeping bag. I worry about it triggering another attack, and I have to ask her. "Are you afraid, having me here with you?"

"No, Peeta. I'm not afraid."

I don't yet entirely trust myself, and I know she doesn't trust herself much either. But, each of us trusts the other, and that's got to count for something.

More time passes, and in a voice barely out of reach of sleep, she asks, "Do you remember much, from when you first came back? When you were rescued?"

I'm taken aback, not expecting the question. "I don't know. There's a lot of confusion there. A lot of my memories are, well, suspect. I remember some of it, really, more than I like. Why do you ask?"

It's almost as if she's talking in her sleep. "I just want to know the story sometime, that's all. The story of how you got better. Of how you came back to me." And she drifts off.

I think about her words, float in them really. I saw it the other way around, that she came back to me. Either way, it feels good, impossibly good, to be like this again. I don't know if I'll sleep, and I don't care. I don't ever need to sleep again, if only I can have her here with me like this. I think about my painting, how it was about how she feels. Yes, this is how she feels, I tell myself. I got it right.

I must sleep, because I wake in the darkness to the sounds of Katniss screaming, her arms thrashing, her legs kicking. I don't register right away that's what it is, though, that she's here with me, that we chose to be together, and it triggers my defenses. But, only for a moment. Because she is calling my name. In her sleep and nightmares and agony, she is calling my name. I reach a hand out, rub her arm. "Katniss. I'm here. I'm here," I whisper. Her eyes open and she looks at me once before closing her eyes again.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep. "I'm sorry I woke you. I've always made it hard for you to sleep."

"No, don't be sorry. Not ever. It's okay, I'm here," and I draw her back to me.

I wake a few times as well, my nightmares shocking me into alertness. To find her here beside me, is like a calming drug, like morphling. A slow drip, and I fade into peaceful oblivion.

"Peeta. Isn't it a little late to get started on the bread?" A voice. A note of humor in it, poking fun. It barely registers. Even with my eyes closed, I can make out light coming in through the windows. Only the light's coming from the wrong place. I attempt to open my eyes, only far enough to note the window, as I thought, isn't where it should be. The curtains, a mossy green, are not my curtains. Then I realize I'm not alone. I turn, and there she is, lying on her side, watching me with her gray eyes.

Recognition finally dawns on me. Katniss's house. Katniss's bed. Katniss.

"I haven't slept this late in, well, I don't know how long," I mutter, sleepiness still interfering with my senses.

"You needed it. We both did." I look at her, and she doesn't look away from me this time. The color has returned to her face, a relief, after yesterday.

"So, about that bread?" she asks, a smile on her face.

"Yeah, you're right. I guess I should get started." An idea forms. "How about you come over and make bread with me?"

"Me, make bread?" She looks like the possibility is not only unlikely but actually disgusting. "Look, after yesterday, well, you know I have a tendency to wreck things. I think you'd better stick to the baking. I'll stick to the hunting. I could get us something good to go with the bread, okay?"

But I don't want her to hunt this morning. Just not now, not at this moment. That after being here with her like this, the thought of her walking away from me, separating from me right now feels wrong. Maybe she feels it too, because she doesn't rise to go, and just stays sitting, her fingers tracing patterns on the quilt. So, I'll just have to convince her.

"Please, it's not like I'm telling you to do this by yourself. I'll be there the whole time, guiding you every step of the way. Seriously, how can you refuse?" She considers my words, my hopeful expression. Then, she reaches a hand towards mine.

"Come on then. Let's go bake some bread." And she laces her fingers through mine and leads me downstairs, outside, to my house.

And, in the newness of a spring morning, the first without rain in what feels like forever, Katniss and I bake bread together.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hunger Games/Catching Fire/Mockingjay. **

**A/N: Again, thank you very, very much for reading, responding, reviewing. Just a few more chapters to go. Enjoy!**

The natural progression of things.

That's how it feels to be sharing a bed with Katniss again.

Sometimes, despite knowing that it's healthy to be active and productive during the day, that it's good to connect with different people, sometimes I just find myself counting the minutes until we can walk upstairs to bed together. Our connection, the way we provide comfort to each other through the dark nights, brings us closer together.

The natural progression of things.

Like how people are moving back into District 12. Of course they are. It was their home, at least for most of them. Some come here from other districts, to settle here, make a new life. We can't figure out why, but they still do. The first shop opens, a small market. Sometimes, on a clear day, we're lucky enough to hear the sounds of children playing. So unbelievable. So incredibly unbelievable that this bombed-out desolate place could be showing signs of real life again.

The natural progression of things.

That I finally visit the remains of my family's bakery, my family's home. Katniss asked me a question about the bakery one day, and with a jolt of guilt and shame, I realized that I let all this time pass without facing the loss of this most integral part of my life. Maybe I'd just been waiting for someone to go with me, to hold my hand, keep me breathing. But, I was afraid to ask her. Of course I needed her with me, I knew that. It's just that visiting town is so hard for her too. She still feels such guilt about the destruction of Twelve. As though she had ordered the bombings herself, had flown one of the planes that did it.

So, I just kind of casually mention one day that I'm thinking of walking past the old place in the afternoon. Maybe my voice isn't as smooth, as carefree as I intend, because suddenly she's there beside me, clasping one of my hands in hers.

"Peeta. I'll go with you, if you want. Of course, if you need to be alone, I understand. But," and she echoes my words to her, "you don't have to do this alone." Naturally I take her up on the offer, relief flooding through me, and I squeeze her hand in thanks.

The next day, I finally visit the remains of my former life. Katniss, at my side, while I grieve for my family yet again. Despite all the clean-up that's been happening in the district, there are many places that have yet to be touched. Like here. We don't say much, both of us unable to translate feelings into words. I just look, try that thing with squinting my eyes again, to think I'll see it there. The bakery as it stood. The tall stately brick exterior. Imagine the sounds, the voices. Of my parents. My brothers. The customers, expressing delight as they leave with fresh crusty loaves of warm bread, cakes swirled with delicate frosting. But it never works, it always makes it worse. Why do I even try it?

In all honesty, there's also a part of me that remains detached, doesn't feel anything as I look upon the rubble. What is the rubble, anyway? Pieces of stone, pieces of a building, but what story does that tell of the people who lived inside, the day-to-day rituals of work, the interactions of a family?

All of this is, thankfully, countered by the realness, the warmth of Katniss's hand in mine, her ability to keep me upright so I don't just disappear into the rubble and ash. Our walk back home is silent as well, but she never lets go of me.

I know I couldn't have faced it without her. Just like so many other things. And, fortunately for me, I am hardly ever without her. Our days spent largely together; our nights always wrapped in each other's arms. She provides everything I need to live: light and life and air.

I feel a closeness between us, something new forming, especially after the night I wake and reach over only to find a big empty space in my bed. Panic sets in, naturally. I call her name, not too loud, and there is no answer. So, I rise from bed, enter the hall, and see a dim light from the other upstairs bedroom. It's a room I've never had much need of. My parents slept in it just once or twice, when they visited and the weather made the walk back to town difficult. But, otherwise, it's just a spare space, one without much meaning. Except for one thing.

I walk softly into the room, and I see her, sitting cross-legged on the floor, mesmerized by it. The painting, of her. She doesn't hear me come in, and I am about to say her name, but think better, and just take a moment to watch her.

I want to ask her what she thinks about it, but instead I break the silence saying only, "I got worried when I woke up and you were gone."

She turns to look at me, only long enough for me to see a trace of guilt, then she is back to looking at the painting. She reaches out a hand, delicately feels the texture of the paints.

"It's different. Different than the others."

"I guess so," I answer, unsure of her feelings about it, afraid to reveal my own.

"I'm sorry. I just was restless and didn't want to wake you. So, I started wandering, and found this here." She pauses, meets my eyes. "You never showed me; I'm sorry if you didn't want me to see it."

"There's nothing to apologize for. It's not like I was trying to hide it."

She turns back to the painting again, and, her voice low, says, "It's so…..so intimate. I don't know what to say. Is this really how you see me?"

"Why, you don't like it?" I recall how she hated my paintings of the Games, despite admiring the artistry.

"No, that's not it at all. I just don't think I deserve it, to be the subject of something done so…..so lovingly."

"I think you do," I tell her.

She holds me a little closer that night. I wonder, will she ever understand how easy it is for me to love her? I hold her, feel I have everything I could want in life. Until Haymitch reminds me that there's always something more.

He is at my house with us one afternoon, slumped on the couch in the living room. His hands shake still, from being without drink, and sometimes he just looks like he doesn't know what to do with himself.

Katniss has to run home, to retrieve the book for us to work on. Before she leaves, she pulls me into an embrace. Warm. Close.

As I watch her leave, I realize Haymitch's eyes are on me. "So, what are you waiting for?" he asks, his voice as gruff as ever.

Since I don't answer, not knowing what he's talking about, he adds, "It's not like you haven't done it a million times before."

Now I'm really confused, so I ask, "What are you talking about?"

"Garrrr…" a growl. Then, as if it were ridiculously obvious, "To kiss her! Why don't you just go ahead and kiss her already!"

I guess Haymitch's involvement in my personal life goes way back, but it still feels invasive to be having this conversation with him. "I don't know," I stammer. "I just don't think she's ready yet."

"Of course she is. She's just waiting for you. To make a move, you know." He sounds so annoyed with me. I can't help feeling it's like the Games; our kisses, our private moments, everyone else's business, not just our own. So, I serve it right back to him.

"Well, what about you? I don't exactly see you putting yourself out there."

His answer is just a snarl.

"Come on," I continue. "There are other people here now. You never know, Haymitch, the woman of your dreams might be living in Twelve right now." A ridiculous idea, sure. But my message comes through loud and clear, and he stays out of my business after that.

But that doesn't stop me from dwelling on his words the next several days. Every time I see Katniss, which is most of the time, I get distracted. Thinking about kissing her, wondering what her reaction would be. I look for signs that she's just waiting for me to make a move, like he said. But she's too hard to read.

In the meantime, I feel myself getting more drawn into our lives together. How could I not? I am so sure of my feelings towards her, and each day feel more confident of her feelings towards me. Not through her words, undoubtedly not her best form of expression, but rather through her actions. The way she looks at me when we sit together, the way she laughs with me, the embraces, the nights together.

There are the occasional days when one of us is busy with other things, separating us for a time. The relief we both feel when we are back together after those separations is palpable. So, I find myself thinking more and more of what our lives could be together, the future I want with her. But, how to tell her?

I plan the words to say. Rehearse, although nothing ever seems quite right.

I look for something I could give her, a symbol that would mean something to us both, but come up empty.

It's only one afternoon when I am putting something away in the drawer by my bed, when I see the obvious answer. The pearl. Our pearl. Carried faithfully by both of us. A symbol of hope.

It is exactly the right thing.

It's so odd to me that I haven't already shown it to her. There were days, earlier on when I came back to Twelve, that I almost did. But, I always stopped short of it, feeling something about the timing was just not right.

But as I hold it in my hand, study its near perfection, I find myself fantasizing about her reaction when she sees it. Disbelief, obviously. This little pearl has been through a lot. Realization. That I never gave up on her, just like she didn't give up on me. And finally, love. An understanding of how this pearl connects us, reflects our faith in each other, holds us together.

I wait for the right time, and the perfect opportunity comes up one evening. Windows open, gentle waves of summer air wafting in, we sit on my couch together. I am telling her stories of the bakery, tales of customers from when I was little. Like the man and his young son who came in every year to order a special birthday cake for the man's wife, but always in an unusual shape. A flower pot. A rocking chair. Once, even a wheelbarrow. We never really understood it, but it seemed to make them happy. They would leave laughing, and we always wondered, is it because they're happy or because it's some kind of wonderful joke between them?

Our moods are light, which is rare and sweet. She is relaxed, enjoying the stories, asking all the right questions. I am quite a bit less relaxed, but trying hard not to let it show. I wait for the right moment, then excuse myself upstairs to get it. When I come back down, she's still on the couch, lost in her own thoughts.

I sit down next to her, the pearl tightly concealed in my hand, and find I have to clear my throat to talk. I never did decide on just the right thing to say, but I have a good track record when it comes to winging it with words, so I hope that will work again.

"Katniss, there's something I want….I want to talk to you about."

She refocuses, letting go of whatever daydream had enveloped her, and looks at me.

"Okay," she says, but I can't miss the slight tensing of her shoulders, as if she's afraid something is wrong.

"Don't worry. Nothing's wrong. It's actually something….something good." My voice sounds all funny, cracking in strange places, and I have to clear it repeatedly. A smile forms on her face, slightly mocking, as she watches me struggle with something that's usually fairly easy.

I don't even know where to begin. I open my mouth, but no words come. My hand with the pearl is sweaty, the pearl getting hot in my grip.

She's a model of patience as she sits and waits for me to spit it out. I had wanted it to be some long speech, something from the heart that spoke of all my feelings for her, my understanding of her pain, how we heal each other. But, none of the sentences forming in my head sound right, so I just stick my closed fist out in front of her. I hold it there, feeling rattled, and she just looks at the fist, then looks back up at my face with curiosity.

Finally, I speak. "I have something for you. It's….it's something important to you. Well, to both of us. Us. That's what I'm getting at." I loosen my grip, uncurl my fingers, and reveal the pearl, nestled safely on my palm.

Her eyes search my face, but then I watch as her gaze shifts downward, to my palm. Just as I expected, disbelief takes over. She reaches a hand slowly towards it, as if it's a mirage, that it exists only in her imagination. I wait for the next moment, the realization. And I see it, the recognition that this is indeed the same pearl here in my hand, as she touches its lustrous surface so slightly with the tip of her finger. This is the moment, and I tell her. "I want you to think of this as a promise, for our future together. Like it was a promise for each of us, to never give up on the other. I just think it's time we made a ….a commitment to each other."

My heart beats frantically as I wait for the next part. The joy, the happiness, the yes from her lips, the celebration as we commit to each other.

Instead, she asks me, directly, her face confused, "You mean…..like marriage?"

I'm momentarily caught off-guard, not intending for this to be an official marriage proposal. So, I tell her, "Yes, sure, in time. When we're both ready. But for now, just a way of saying that we're…."

But I never finish the thought, because I'm distracted by her. By her hands as she suddenly removes her finger from the pearl. By her eyes, as for a brief but intense moment she looks into my eyes like she's trying to see something deep inside of me. Then by her motions. A quick rise to her feet. A hesitation. Then a turn towards the door, quick footsteps retreating, and then she's gone. Just gone. Out my door, running away from my house. Away from me.

I remain seated, immobilized, frozen in inaction. Wondering what the hell just happened. My mind mired in confusion, except for the one thing I do know.

The natural progression of things has come to a screeching halt.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: I do not own HG/CF/MJ. Love them, of course!**

**A/N: Hope you enjoy. Thank you for reading!**

Fool. Idiot.

To let it happen again. After all, I had sworn I would never let it happen again.

It's like that first time. The first time she broke my heart. Next to the train, on the way back to Twelve from our first Games. The time I'd made a ridiculous assumption that because she kissed me and embraced me, shared a bed with me, gazed lovingly into my eyes, and saved my life, that it meant something more.

And, despite thinking I had it all figured out, here I am again.

Frozen on my couch, I fight off the trigger, the sensations threatening to take over, the thoughts that she's a ruthless killer. No, I tell myself. That's not what she is. Not a ruthless killer. Not an assassin. But something else.

Obviously, the closeness that was growing and developing each day, the intimacies we were sharing, they meant something different to her than to me. I feel like an absolute fool. An idiot. Remembering the silly fantasies I'd allowed myself, the joy with which she'd take the pearl from me. The happiness at my words. All shattered, and I kick myself for the idle daydreams of a fool.

More triggers, shiny-edged images. I grip the coffee table in front of me, my way of mastering my impulses. She's not a killer. She's not evil. She's just….just….what? I flip through thoughts of her in my head. I know she needs me. That she cares about me. But is that the extent of it? When we lie in a bed together every single night, she holds my hand, we laugh and cry together, are these just the hallmarks of some kind of friendship but nothing more?

Fooled, once again. Peeta, the son of a baker who was rejected by the woman he loved. Full circle, life playing out in spiraling patterns. I should have known.

I slowly become aware of a cutting pain in my hands. Find them clenched so tight, that my fingernails are breaking the surface of my skin. As I work to unclench them, I see it. Still there. The symbol of hope. Hah! Sitting in my palm, where she left it. Resting there so innocently, but it must be laughing at me too. I want to throw it, to launch it – at a window, in a trash can, maybe the fireplace. I can't decide, all are such tempting targets.

But instead, I just hold it. Stare down at it. Recall memories I don't want to recall. Stretches of time weaving in and out of each other, snarling my brain. Katniss limply holding a bunch of wildflowers by a train. The cold slam of my door as she takes off. Alone in my train car, pounding my fists into a pillow. The look of recognition on her face as she sees the pearl.

I try to straighten it out, separate the different occurrences. The other time. That's the train. Coping by simply ignoring her. Staying away, avoiding any closeness except when it was required. But, accompanied by the ever-present ache of the separation. So many times, wanting to just be with her, regardless of her indifferent feelings.

I continue to sort the memories out. This time, her confused expression. Her hesitation before turning away and leaving. The way the word "marriage" seemed to form a bad taste on her tongue. My temper starts to flare again. Anger at her, anger at myself. This time, I resolve it has to be different. I stand, don't know what to do with the pearl, so just jam it into my pocket, and head for the door.

No ignoring this time. No long silences. No, this time, I'm going to have it out with her.

My walk to her house would best be defined as a march. Brisk, purposeful. I'm not even cognizant of the darkness around me, that somehow night has fallen, until I stumble on a small hole in her lawn. I curse it, blame it for everything. Arriving at her house, I don't bother with the front door. No point in it, as I know she locks it every night. So, instead, I park myself below her window. Her closed window. On a summer's night. Suddenly it's just another thing to hold against her, that she would be the kind of person to have their window closed on a night like this.

I start yelling her name. "Katniss! Katniss!" In some other place, some other time, this would be very embarrassing. But here and now, with only Haymitch to overhear me, I find the yelling actually feels good. I try again, full volume. "Katniss!" No answer. Damn well-built victor's house. Damn closed window.

Now what can I do? I want to scream at her, let her know how she has hurt me, but since she's not making an appearance, I look for some other target. Even in the dark, my eyes catch the outline of the primroses. I consider, but briefly, for she's already hurt those enough, so there's no real pleasure to be had there. She has two chairs by her front steps, two chairs we sometimes sit in to enjoy the summer days. This is the perfect target, because these chairs are mocking me too. Two of them. A couple. Together. Like I thought we were. I give them my best. A swift kick to the closest one. Which means I use my good leg and am briefly balancing on my prosthetic leg. Not always a good choice, and I lose my balance, fall forward, topple into the chair and onto the ground, scrape my hands in the process.

Now the vision of me must be truly pathetic. Even with no one to see, I actually feel the humiliation. This cools off the anger, just a few degrees, and after I stand and brush myself off, I plunk down on her front step, sullen and defeated.

Her front step. The same place I sat months ago, drunk, and looking for the courage to talk to her. I know better now than to consider alcohol this time, but I have to admit, it still sounds tempting.

The summer air teases me, so cool, so perfect. Stars glimmer above. Enough to make anyone ask, what could possibly be wrong on a night like this?

But, there is something wrong. The question I ask myself is, where do I go from here? I realize that the past few months, I've pretty much assumed that our lives were entwined, that I wouldn't have to consider again what I would do without her. But now? I have no ideas. No plans. Nothing.

A voice breaks the silence.

"The door was unlocked, you know." It's her voice, soft in the night. So wrapped up in my own thoughts, I hadn't even heard her open the door.

"Oh. I thought you always locked it," I answer dumbly, chagrined at yet another sign that I'm an idiot.

"I do. But, I kept it unlocked, just in case…." And her voice trails off. I hear her light footsteps as she comes toward me, and then sits beside me on the step.

I look at her, preparing to hate the cold, hard, unloving look on her face. But, when I see her, the concern in her eyes, the apology in her expression, I can't do it. It's not the face of someone who's indifferent towards me, not the face of someone who would prefer to be alone. I feel shame. Maybe I misjudged her, read something different in her reaction than was there. But, how can I know? I never can. I have to face it. I'm weak, always have been, where Katniss is concerned.

"I came over here to yell at you," I say, my voice quiet as well, as if there were actually people around to hear us.

"So, why don't you?" she asks.

"Good question," I mutter. We sit in silence after this, a small space between us, looking at the dry lawn. A quiet night, but for the far-off chirp of crickets.

Finally, she says, "I must be a very frustrating person to love."

"Then you know that, at least, that I love you?" I look at her, but she won't return my gaze.

"That's always been the easier part, hasn't it." She doesn't say it as a question, just a statement of something we both know is true. Steady Peeta, always faithful in his love, with a few exceptions of course.

More pauses in the night. Then, her voice. "Can I see it? The pearl. Do you have it?"

I dig into my pocket, and pull it out. Her hand opens for it, and I place it there, feeling the skin of her small, soft hands, relishing it for just a moment. Such a weak fool I am.

"I don't understand," she says, almost a whisper. "How can this be the same one?"

"After the fire. When they cut the clothes off of you, they found it. They gave it to Haymitch, he gave it to me." I feel myself getting sucked back into that hope again. I want to tell her more, tell her everything about what it means to me. But, I resist and stop there.

"But why didn't you show it to me before?" The same question I asked myself, and I give her the same honest answer.

"I don't really know."

She sits, caressing the pearl with her fingers, rolling it, studying every part of it. She keeps her gaze on the pearl, but speaks to me. "Peeta, about earlier. I'm sorry."

In my usual fashion, I start to say, "It's okay," which is dumb, because it's not. But, she doesn't let me say it.

"I just never…never allow myself to look to the future. Never. Except for maybe before…." and she doesn't finish the thought. No need to, as I know she's thinking of her father. "I've just always been too….afraid. So when you talked about a commitment, I just….won't let myself make plans like that. I'm sorry. I know I hurt you." And after a pause she adds, "Again."

And I feel some of the anger, just a small bit, well up again, and my words to her are not as soft, not quite as gentle. "I just think, well, Katniss, isn't it about time that you allowed yourself to realize that, despite all the horrific things that happened, the unfathomable price you paid, that ultimately some good things resulted from what you did? From your actions, the choices you made. You've given people hope, given them a future. All those kids, who used to stand outside, praying that their names wouldn't be drawn from the reaping ball. They have a future now. Every year, twenty-four of those kids that would have been brutally stripped of a future have one now, thanks to you and the rebellion. Their families, no longer torn apart from grief and loss. So, why not you? Why aren't you allowed a future?" My eyes sting with the hot tears forming in them, forming from the anger and the hurt, from the love I can't shake for this person sitting here next to me.

She doesn't answer, can't answer, not for awhile. "I don't know," she finally says. "Do you ever watch the ants out here, Peeta? I sometimes do, in the afternoons. I watch them do their job, carry these huge loads all over the place. That's all they do. Who knows if they want to, or if they dream of a better life someday. They just live in the moment, deal with what needs to be dealt with. I guess…I guess I'm kind of like that."

"But you're not an ant, Katniss. It's not your destiny to have a life of simply carrying loads, toiling, and slaving, even if it feels like it sometimes. You're a person. A person with a lot of life ahead of you. Can't you just allow yourself a chance at a future?"

She stares at the pearl, rolling it in her restless hands. "It's just hard. When I think about how many I've loved. How many of them I've lost. There's just…. so many. Too many."

And it's like I can see them all flash through her head. Her father. Cinna. Finnick. Prim. On and on, too many to count.

She goes on, her voice thick with pain. "I can't…. I just can't lose you too."

And in the dark, our hands find each other, like so many times before. No more anger, no more fighting. Just her. And me.

"You never have to," I whisper back to her. In the dim starlight, I see her eyes meet mine, glistening. And slowly and surely, as if it were the only possible thing we could do, the very thing we need more than anything else, we kiss. Sweet and gentle, warm and soft. A little awkward even, from all the time and history since the last kiss we shared, and altogether too short.

And there's no way I can deny it, my heart is filling once again with hope, just as it seems made to do.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: Hey, I still don't own HG/CF/MJ. Thanks to Suzanne Collins for creating such wonderful characters and a story that keeps me thinking.**

**A/N: This was supposed to go with the next chapter, but it was all just too long, so it became two chapters. I hope you enjoy it, and hopefully I'll be able to post the next chapter soon.**

Summer days continue, long, unhurried, but no longer marked by sweltering heat. Change is apparent as we draw closer to autumn. Corn, grown in a small patch by Haymitch's house, grows tall. Apples ripen on the trees, their sweet fragrance filling the air.

A change has come over me as well. A conscious decision. To live like Katniss, like the ant. Living only in the moment, no longer thinking of promises, commitments, futures. I no longer think, or at least try not to, about the natural progression of things. Because that would imply some kind of forward motion, a goal. There is no goal, not any longer. There is only now.

We fill our days, much as we have before. With one addition – more kisses. Since that first one, with only the stars as a witness, it is the new thing added to the repertoire of things we do together. Eat. Sleep. Talk. Work. Hug. Kiss. None are the passionate kisses of lovers. I don't know why. It's not that I don't want those; on the contrary, I fantasize about kissing Katniss that way all too frequently. But, it doesn't happen. Maybe because we're still defining who we are to each other. Maybe because, unlike our kisses from earlier, we no longer have the threat of imminent death hanging over us. There are different kinds of kisses, though. Some to ease pain, especially in the night when nightmares are our unwelcome guests. Others more curious. And on rare, pleasant occasions, the kisses given spontaneously by Katniss, which I like the most.

So, there are reasons to not complain about living only in the moment. There's also regained trust, in her feelings towards me. My understanding that it is not me that she's afraid of, but rather her own fear of loving, that she is too frightened to make plans, to have dreams. So, I stop my own plans, my own dreams as well.

The only promise Katniss does make is to teach me to swim.

"You already taught me, I think I remember that."

"No. That wasn't swimming. That was doing enough to get by. You're going to learn the real thing. Sometime soon."

Sometime soon. It's one of those funny things that are going to take place in the future, something that she's planning for. Funny, since I thought we weren't doing that anymore.

Katniss and I also start a new task. It goes back to what she said to me, the first night we slept together again. What I remembered, and the story of how I got better. We talk of all the missing and confused times, to piece together missing links, to clear up the things that don't make sense. She reminds me of things I said to her, when I was rescued and brought to 13. Things that obviously hurt her. It's painful, because I know I wasn't in my right mind when I said those things. But we talk them through, trace them back to their sources, the real memories, and she describes the details of those events, so I can visualize them, make them right in my head again.

Sometimes she includes some details from her lost time, when she was in the burn unit, or alone in the Training Center. She doesn't volunteer much, though, and I never push. Maybe I should, would it help her? I don't know.

We never do this at night, when we're wrapped in each other's arms. We tried it once, and I felt myself losing control, the fears and suspicions about her roused again. I worked through it, but when it was over, and I touched her, so vulnerable next to me, I knew this was not the right place for this kind of work.

So, we talk of other things as we fall asleep. Talk of the present, recall the events of the day. Talk of the things further back from our past, from our families, things that are largely happy memories for us, although, as many things in our lives, bittersweet. Try to fall asleep with good thoughts, anything to ward off the nightmares. And as we lie in bed together, I just concentrate on how she feels right now, this very moment. Each kiss, a token of now, no promises, no strings attached.

It's easy enough to do, live in the moment. A relief in some ways. Yet, there's something that troubles me about it too, although I can't determine exactly what it is. It feels like a slowly building gloom, like a cloud you see way off in the distance, and as it approaches, you feel your spirits start to cloud over with it.

It affects me in different ways. Like the morning I was baking bread, just like normal, when I just stopped. Stopped in the middle of forming the dough into a perfect oblong loaf. Stopped, and looked at it, then without any real conscious decision, picked up the board, carried it to the trash can, grabbed the carefully formed loaf, and pitched it. Just like that.

I stood there, looking at it, seeing it meld with all the other detritus in the trash, but with no idea why I tossed it there. It wasn't more than thirty minutes later when Katniss showed up, made a comment about some jam from Mrs. Comstock to go with the bread.

"There is no bread," I told her bluntly.

"No bread?" she asked. Then, after studying my face, just said "Oh," and sat down. She didn't ask about it for fifteen minutes, exhibiting remarkable restraint. By that time, my mood had lifted a little, probably due to her presence, but I still didn't feel quite right. Finally, she asked what it was, did I want to talk about it. I just shook my head, told her the truth, or at least part of it, that I didn't really know why I threw out the bread.

The doldrums persisted through the next several weeks, despite a glorious run of late summer weather. I thought they'd just go away, eventually wear themselves out. It bothered me to be this way, especially around Katniss, who is so prone to gloom herself.

Finally, on a lovely evening, filtered sunlight bathing everything in gold, we sit outside her house. Katniss suggests that what we need is to get out of the Victor's Village. Her idea? A picnic, tomorrow, in the woods. A way to get the most out of the remaining sunshine. As if to provide evidence of the changing season, an oak leaf, patched in yellow and gold, wafts to the ground.

I agree to the picnic, although I'm surprised she suggests the woods. So many memories are there for her – hunting with her father, with Gale. She still hunts there, of course, but always alone, and I worry that I'll intrude on her memories and thoughts. No, she says, she'd like to be there with me.

The morning dawns, and we can see right away that it's one of those days, the kind you wish you could bottle, save for when you need it. Flawless in its beauty, its freshness. Even two aching people like us feel better on a day like this.

We talk as we walk through the woods, as I try desperately not wake everything with my loud clomping. I tell her that people are talking of building here, in the woods. She says she hopes not, that this is the one place left unsoiled by the destruction. That it needs to stay that way. She's right, of course.

The exercise, the perfection of the day raise my spirits. After all, everything seems right about today. Even the mosquitoes and deer flies seem to be giving us a break. Katniss herself seems to be blossoming from our walk. The woods are always such a natural place for her. My eyes take in her skin, practically shining in the sunlight, her hair glossy in its braid. It always feels better when I see she's taking care of herself.

We find the perfect spot for our picnic, in a grove of maples. We spread out the blanket, set out the food. I surprise her with cheese buns, having returned to my pre-dawn baking routine. She surprises me with lamb stew, warming it over a small fire. It's cute, we smile, as we share this connection. But behind my smile at this connection to our past, I feel that tug at me, that pesky thing that keeps straining my mood. I try to shake it off as we make ourselves comfortable. She sits, I lie on my side. We tell small things to each other, nothing overly significant, eat our bread and stew.

Suddenly she becomes alert and looks around, her hunting senses taking over. I notice it only moments later. A scent, sweet, permeating the air around us. We soon locate the source. Nothing hunting us, nothing to be hunted. Much simpler prey. Blackberries. So ripe in the late season, their sweetness multiplied.

Standing next to each other, we pick some, collect them in bowls to bring back to the blanket. But, we can't resist sampling as we pick. Who could? I bring a berry to my lips, happen to glance in her direction. And I see her in the same position. Hand up to her lips, holding a berry. She sees it too. We freeze. Remember. Berries. Recognition and memory are clear in her eyes, and instead of eating the berry, she drops it wordlessly into her bowl. I feel the turmoil rising inside of me, and all these memories, these connections between us swirl through my brain. Berries. Bread. Lamb Stew. I think beyond the things here, back to the things we do at home. The book. The pearl. It's all the same thing, and it starts screaming at me: _The past, the past, the past!_

Everything that binds us, everything connecting us, is all from the past, what was. With the future off-limits, a forbidden place, it leaves us only with the past and the present, but even the present is really just a shadow of the past. The past, a constant reminder. Now, if we were people who had glorious, sun-filled pasts, perhaps that would be a pleasant place to live. But that's not us. Yes, there are beautiful moments from our pasts, moments we'd never trade. But, our pasts are also filled with the very demons we need most to escape.

This is what's been troubling me. This is why I couldn't make the bread, because it's what I've done always, always in the past. It strikes me as ironic, remembering how the routine, the pattern of making, forming, baking the bread was so therapeutic to me in the spring, how restorative it was. And, now, thinking of it, thinking of all the baking of the past, all the loaves of bread, and how it doesn't change, it clouds my brain, stifles my heart.

Our walk back to the blanket is quiet. I lie down, try to slow my heartbeat, tell myself I'm just dwelling needlessly and that I just need to relax. I pick up a few blackberries, pretend they are just something to eat, not a symbol of the ever-present past, and try to eat them.

I want to tell her, to explain my misery. But how can I? How can I tell her the lack of a future has stifled the present? I start, say her name, but then I notice her eyes, trained on me, focused in concern.

"Peeta," she says. "What's wrong?"

I won't tell her, refuse to have her feel the guilt I know would envelop her if she knew my decision. To do away with the future. She'd feel responsible for that. So, instead, I just lie. "I'm bored," I say. I suppose there's a bit of truth in it, but it's definitely not the whole truth. The truth is much stronger: I'm immobilized. Trapped. Stalled.

"Bored?" she asks hesitantly, her eyebrows knitting together in doubt.

"Sure, you know, kind of stuck in the same old, same old every day." It sounds plausible, and again, has a hint of truth. I reach for another blackberry.

"Well, I was thinking of something, and maybe it will help you with that. I was wondering," she says, and suddenly her voice sounds strained, is cracking in awkward places. She averts her eyes, becomes fascinated in the basket of picked-over cheese buns in front of her. She finally manages the words. "I was wondering if maybe you'd like to… to move in with me." A blush crosses her face, and I choke on the blackberry.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hunger Games/Catching Fire/Mockingjay.**

She's leaning over me, slapping me on the back as I cough, choking on the blackberry. I tell her I'm fine, to just give me a second. Moments later, I am able to sit up, and the coughs wear themselves out. She squats on her heels across from me, eyeing me carefully to make sure I am indeed okay.

"Not the reaction you probably expected," I say, wiping my mouth.

"Hardly," she responds, but as I recover my senses, she again finds it hard to look into my eyes.

As for me, I've pretty much forgotten the worries and doubts that were clouding my mind before her question. Only her words echo in my head now. "You asked me a question. You asked if I would move in with you." Now that my coughing fit is over, the silence of the woods is more apparent, as if even the trees are listening in on our conversation.

"Well, yes, I was just thinking….You know, we spend most of our time together anyway. It seems silly, to be taking care of two houses. It's a lot of work. And, you know how hard it is for people coming to Twelve to make a fresh start. So, I thought maybe, well, it might make sense to just maybe, I don't know, but maybe give one of our houses to a family, some people who could really use it, and then we could…..share the other house. Preferably my house because….well, it's just an idea."

Her words are getting tangled around each other, everything sounding like a reason that's something other than the truth, and she is suddenly fascinated with the plaid pattern on the blanket.

"So, what you're saying is, you want me to live with you because cleaning is a lot of work and you want to help other people?" I'm teasing her, but am careful not to overdo it. The last thing I need is for her to shut down. She doesn't answer, so I try a gentler approach. "Come on, what's this really about, Katniss?"

She clenches her jaw, fires me a look that says, "Damn you for making me have to do this". Explanations of her feelings are definitely not her thing.

"I don't see what's wrong with wanting to help another family," she says defensively, but then backs off. "But, I guess there is more. I just….I feel better, when you're with me."

"I'm already with you almost all the time." And I smile, rest a hand on hers, gently stroke her fingers.

"I know, but still, it's just that the house, it's so big. When you're not there, it's so….empty. Quiet and empty, and I just walk around, not knowing what to do with myself. I don't need this big, this big thing, this place I just rattle around in. I just….need more life around me. All the time." I wrap my fingers around hers, watch her face, remember again how her house used to be a house with life in it. I don't respond right away, so she adds a little more. "I know I'm better when you're there, and maybe it's true the other way too?"

"That I'm better when you're with me?" She nods. "Always," I reply.

And now I have to remind myself, so deliberately: no promises, no commitments, we are just living in the moment. It's a good moment to live in, true. But it's hard to fight off the images that come when you think of living with the person you love. Everything that might mean, now and tomorrow. The warmth, the softness of her hand does not help me in this.

Push the thoughts away, I tell myself. Be happy for what is now. And, because the moment seems so heavy, because I want to read so much into this, I know I have to change the tone, for both of us. So, I say, "But there is one thing I'm wondering. Have you discussed this with your roommate yet? Because I'm not so sure he's going to be crazy about the idea."

She shakes her head, furrows her brow. Baffled, she asks, "Roommate?"

"Yes. Because, I'm not sure he likes me much." I make her suffer in her muddled confusion just a few seconds longer, before I clue her in. "Your roommate. You know, the furry one?"

It only takes a moment to dawn on her. Of course, Buttercup. "Well, an occasional piece of cheese might go a long way towards winning him over," she says, playing along. Then, "So, that's a yes?"

"Yes, Katniss. I'll move in with you." I squeeze her hand, she smiles at me, and she looks different. The tension of today, the weight of asking me, now erased from her shoulders, and we have at least one reason in this world to feel carefree. We are moving in together.

When we return to our houses, we start making plans. Katniss knows a family with a couple of young children who may be interested in my house. Choosing her house for our residence instead of mine wasn't a difficult decision, as I didn't have a strong connection to my house anyway. Although she is haunted by Prim's death, she tells me there are still traces of Prim in her house, and even though it hurts, she doesn't want to lose that.

Packing my things is a very short, easy job, as I have little beyond the painting, my clothes, paints, and baking supplies that I need. The pearl is already safely ensconced in Katniss's house. The larger task is cleaning my house, making sure the furniture is all in good condition, doing some touch-up work on the interior. We want to have it as nice as possible for the new tenants, and we're lucky to have Greasy Sae's help in this task.

One afternoon when we're scrubbing the upstairs floors, she starts to tell us about something she's been seeing more often on her television. Stories of the world outside of Panem. Of nations so far from ours, that we never even really considered their existence, such has been the insular nature of Panem. Tales of wars, stories of rebellions. And I wonder, do any of them have a story like ours?

Haymitch comes over as well, but is more comfortable in the role of critical supervisor than worker. However, he seems to approve of our decision, to move in together. When Katniss and I share a hug or a kiss in the rounds of cleaning, he scoffs, grunts, clears his throat. But, underneath it all, it seems to actually make him happy, and I start to think that maybe he's been rooting for us all along.

Annie sends photos of Finn, and this time, Katniss even has to laugh at his chubby cheeks, the folds of fat that are the hallmark of a healthy, happy baby, his shock of bronze hair. She puts the photographs on the mantel, and I often catch her looking at them.

I call Annie, extend our thanks, tell her how much we love the photos. Let her know how good it is to see her obvious happiness in them. She is happy, she says – mixed with more complicated feelings like loneliness, grief, and exhaustion, but, yes, there is definitely happiness there too. Just before hanging up, she says, "You did it, Peeta, didn't you? Found your way home?"

I glance over at Katniss, touching Finn's little round folds in the photo, and I say, "I think so." When I hang up, I stand and think about her question. And I remember: no plans, no promises. But seeing Katniss arrange the pictures, while I watch from _our_ kitchen, it couldn't feel much more like a home than this.

The day comes soon, the day when I say goodbye to my old house and officially move into Katniss's home. Haymitch and Greasy Sae join us for dinner to celebrate. When the time comes for them to leave, Katniss and I take up our usual dish cleaning roles – she likes to wash, relishing the warmth of the water on her hands, I dry. We're alone in the house, and she says, "You ever think, you know, Haymitch and Greasy Sae?"

I look at her, not getting her meaning right away. Then I figure it out, and I raise my eyebrows at this just unthinkable suggestion. "Seriously? Nah."

Then she laughs, and soon we're both laughing, calling up imagery that's just too hard to believe. When our laughter dies down, I say, "Well, I guess you never know. They do say opposites attract after all."

To which Katniss responds casually, "True. Look at us for instance," and goes on washing the dishes. I dry a plate, slowly rub the surface, replaying her words in my head. Are we opposites? Is that how she sees us? But also, she put us together. Us. I like how it makes me feel.

We follow our normal routine, walk upstairs, get ready for bed. I don't know why, being as I've spent many nights here already, but it feels different this time. I sit on the bed, pulling off my socks, and look out the window. I can make out my house from here, well, the house that I used to call mine. This is now my house, our house. This room, our room. Our bed. Our sheets. My pillow. How can all these things be different when I've seen them a million times?

I wonder about Katniss. Does it feel any different to her? We get into bed, snuggle in together, just like always. Everything, just like always. So, why is my heart racing?

Usually, as we lie in bed, we make conversation. It's natural for us. Not always easy, since the topics can be difficult, but always natural. Tonight, though, it's like we're almost strangers. Stilted conversations punctuated by stretches of silence.

"I never bothered to put anything on the walls," she says abruptly. "I was thinking maybe you could….do some paintings for them?"

"Sure," I say, wondering about the raspiness of her voice. "And I thought that this might be a good time to…expand the garden, you know, like we talked about. While we still have some good weather…" my voice trails off, and I wonder what's going on.

"Well, goodnight," she says, and I wish the same to her. She lifts her head off my chest, for our usual goodnight kiss, and it's short, like usual, but even in this, I note a change. She doesn't turn her head away, plant it back on my chest right away, like usual. Instead, she brings her lips towards mine, hesitates for a moment, and we kiss again. Just after, there's a moment, when we are just looking at each other, and I think the expression in her eyes must mirror mine. Some kind of intensity, some wondering, that's not usually there.

It's my turn now, to lean in for another kiss, and this one lingers, her mouth soft and warm and inviting against mine. Definitely not the usual quick kiss before going to sleep. Another kiss, and the swoops and tingles and quivers inside me tell me how much I want more. A flash of worry flits through my brain, a warning about my episodes. But, I shake it off, something telling me that I won't be bothered that way, at least not tonight. More kisses. I put a hand on the back of her head, stroke her hair, pull her closer to me. A change comes over her as well, as her arms encircle my back, pulling herself closer. It's like our kisses at the beach, a memory long buried by necessity. The intensity of our kisses grow. Her breathing, like mine, is fast, shallow. She is pulled so close to me, so close. Everything about her makes me want more.

Here, in our room, the first night of our official living together, I didn't expect this. And it's so nice, so indescribably nice, and I don't want any of it to stop. But, I have to, and I pull away. Which is difficult, as Katniss just reaches farther for me.

There's enough moonlight shining through the window to see her face. "Katniss. Maybe we should stop," I whisper, hating myself for these words.

She looks at me, her eyes dark, alert. Her question is simple and direct: "Why?"

"I just feel like maybe we're just getting out of sequence with everything. You know, living together, then this." I'm stumbling through this, my mind pretty overwhelmed due to the sensations raging through me.

"Does that matter to you?" she asks, a small frown on her lips.

"Not so much, no. But, I just thought maybe it would matter to you. That…maybe you'd want something more normal, more official, the way things are supposed to be done…"

She just looks at me, her frown slowly changing to the barest hint of a smile. "Honestly Peeta, I don't think 'normal' has ever been part of our story," and she reaches up and lightly caresses my face.

Our story. I like the sound of the words together, coming from Katniss. Our story.

She goes on. "I mean, you must have thought that since we sleep together every night, we live together, that at some point we would…"

"No," I say, cutting her off. "I haven't." She looks at me like I'm from some totally different planet, and I realize the ridiculousness of what I just said. "No, I mean, of course. Of course I've thought about that," but I don't tell her how much, since it may frighten her to know the details, the clarity of my imaginings. "No, I just mean, I haven't let myself think ahead like that. You know, instead just think about the here and now." I don't sound convincing, even to me.

"You sound like me," she says after a pause. I shrug, and she furrows her brow, studying me. "I hope I didn't give you the impression that you were supposed to stop thinking about the future or something."

"Well, I kind of made myself stop doing that, actually."

"Why would you do that?"

"I just thought….it would make things easier for us."

"But that's who you are, Peeta. That's one of the best things about you. The hope you give, the way you make people feel better about tomorrow. Make me feel better."

She leans in towards me, our hungry lips meet again. She tastes of herbs and mint and something indescribably woodsy. I feel about a hundred different pleasant sensations, but even those aren't enough to block out the other thing that's weighing on me. Something that's honestly been nagging at me for awhile, although I haven't wanted to consider it. Have done everything possible, in fact, to not think of it. But if there were ever a time, this would be it. I rise to sitting, take her hands, and pull her up too.

"There is something else, though. Something I need to…talk to you about."

She sighs. "More talking?" And the look on her face, well, I almost lose my conviction entirely. The things we could do instead of talking…

"Yeah, it's just…the way we're here together. Like this. I'm just worried, you know, that I'm the one here with you because of…..default by proximity."

"Meaning what exactly?"

"Basically that I'm…I'm the only one here! We're in District 12, of all places. There aren't exactly other…choices for you here."

"I don't need other choices," she says bluntly, as if to end the conversation, and runs an incredibly tantalizing hand down my arm.

I try not to get derailed by her, know that these are questions that have to be asked, and unfortunately it has to be now. "I just don't want to think you're here with me just because….there was no one else."

Her hand stops abruptly, and she narrows her eyes, now steely gray. "You'd really think that of me? Think that I'd be so….so shallow, that I'd just hop in bed with whatever person just happened to be available?"

I am stunned by her words. "No. Of course not, Katniss. I'd never think that of you."

"Then what are you saying?" she asks, and she crosses her arms in front of her, clenches her jaw.

"It's just that this…this is a big deal. I just worry that you didn't really get to make a choice. You've had very few choices in your life, and I want this to be one." And in my brain, I know it's not entirely unselfish. For, I know I also have a need, that not only do I want her to feel she chose me, but that I need to feel chosen by her. "I just can't help wondering, if you had the opportunity to…to meet someone else or," and now I have to go where I absolutely don't want to, "or…. if Gale were to come back…"

She doesn't let me finish, exasperation plain in the rolling of her eyes. "We have to talk about Gale? _Here_? _Now?_" and she gestures to the bed, to the most awkward of places for this conversation.

"Well, actually, yeah, I think we do." She thumps her back against the wall, slides down, and ends in a slump, gripping the bed covers with her hands, her eyes refusing to meet mine. This first night in _our_ house together, and suddenly it's not going well. I hope she won't decide to send me back to my old house. "I'm sorry. But, you care about him, or you did." I pause. "I haven't asked." And I haven't. Ever since coming back. I've picked up bits and pieces from Greasy Sae, from Haymitch. But I know little of the reasons why he is not here.

Her voice, when she responds, is low and rough, her words distinct, clipped. "I really don't want to talk about Gale." But then adds, more gently, "But not for the reasons you think."

"But you miss him," I venture. Because I know it's true. I've seen it, like weeks ago in the woods, her avoidance of the places they used to go together.

She doesn't answer right away, and when she does, her words are careful. "Yes. I do. I miss my friend. But, I don't….have _those_ feelings for him." Her eyes flicker towards me, just for a brief moment. "I…I never did, really."

"Never?"

"No. I wondered, before, if maybe….but, no. It's not like it is….with you."

"Even if you think we're opposites, like what you said downstairs?" We both speak softly now, murmurs in the moonlight.

"Actually… I think that's one of the big parts of it. Because it's the things about you that are different from me that I need the most. So, yes, I did get to make a choice. And not because of default whatever that was you said. It doesn't matter how many people are in District Twelve or anywhere else for that matter, Peeta, I still choose you. I would always choose you."

I lean in to kiss her, for the kiss that will be the beginning of everything new we will be to each other, but suddenly she pulls away, asks me to stop. Her expression has changed, signs of anxiety are creeping in. She holds me out at arms length then stands.

"Just wait here a minute, okay? I just need to….just wait." And she darts into the hall, and I hear the bathroom door close behind her. I call, "Katniss?" What just happened, I wonder. I feel the anxiety creeping into me as well, wonder if I did something wrong.

But, she calls back, "Everything's fine. Really." Her voice sounds breathless, "Just give me a moment."

I wait, wonder, do as she instructed. Her footsteps, always so quiet, so trained from her years of hunting, don't alert me that she's returned. It's only when I hear a small cough in her throat that I see her standing in the doorway.

She is holding something in front of her, but I only notice that for a moment, because I quickly register that the only thing left on her is the blush on her face, visible even in the pool of moonlight. I realize then that what she is holding in front of her are her clothes.

"Katniss?" Her name dies in my chocked off throat. I sit up, and can form no words.

"I just thought, well you were talking about choices. How important it was for me to have a choice. And so, I wanted you to have one too. I just wanted you to see. I'd understand. In case…in case you want to change your mind." And as she finishes the thought, she moves the clothes aside, revealing to me what she's kept hidden. A body scarred.

Is it wrong to find someone more beautiful because of their imperfections, the way life has made its marks on them? Seeing Katniss like this, something about her vulnerability, the trust she is showing me with this gesture, just takes my breath away.

"Change my mind?" The only words I can manage to say, I am so overwhelmed by her, by my feelings for her. I must sit and stare speechlessly for too long, because suddenly I see her expression change. She starts to move the clothes back in front of her, all awkwardness and embarrassment.

"I'm sorry. Katniss. I just," and I stand facing her, speak as tenderly as I can. "I love you," I say, taking a step closer. "I always have. I always will. How, why would I possibly change my mind?"

Her eyes change again, and this time they are simply the eyes of a girl afraid to be hurt. I walk slowly up to her. "You are beautiful, Katniss." I whisper. "Always so beautiful." I gently reach out, touch the scars on her neck from where I hurt her. She lets me gently trace the scars down the curves of her body, linger on the places where the most damage occurred. I am overcome by her beauty, her softness. She keeps her eyes trained on me. I feel her tremble below my touch. Is she afraid of me? "You know I would never hurt you," I whisper. "Please don't be afraid. I could never hurt you again."

"That's not what I'm afraid of," she says, her voice barely audible. I wait, then she adds, "I don't know what to do."

An image of the advice, the conversations, we didn't get to have, she with her mother, me with my father, my brothers. The conversations we'll never have. "I don't either," I admit. But, I add, just before I kiss her, "We'll just have to figure it out together, like always."

And we do. In the pale moonlight of a room, not just any room, but _our_ room. Something new in our story. Two bodies, burned by fire, burn instead with fire, the fire of desire and discovery, of comfort and healing. And love.

And after, as she lays in my arms, her head in its home on my chest, our bodies wrapped around each other, ripples of contentment wash though me. I feel her head lift off my chest, I open my eyes, see her looking at me. And I think, she has given me everything right here, right now…..trust, her whole self, even a glimpse of what the future could be. All but one thing. It's something I already know, of course, but it doesn't change the fact that a part of me needs the confirmation. So, I whisper to her my question: "You love me. Real or not real?" Her answer, her gray eyes clear, no doubt clouding them: "Real."

And as I drift off to sleep, previously unimaginable sweetness and beauty enveloping me, I just catch her words, thick with sleep, the barest murmur.

"Welcome home, Peeta Mellark."

**A/N: A long chapter, yes, but hopefully you found the payoff worth it. There just wasn't anything I was willing to give up. There will be just one more chapter, my own Epilogue. Thank you so, so much for reading!**


	14. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hunger Games, Catching Fire, or Mockingjay.**

**A/N: Sigh…wrapping up this story, and I'm sad to end it. But, my intention all along was to take the final several chapters from Mockingjay and tell it all from Peeta's perspective, but keep it within the framework of the original story, naturally giving a lot more information about their lives along the way. So, I am concluding this with my own epilogue. **

**I must take a moment to say thank you to anyone who is reading this. I was excited every day to see how many people read the story, and extra thanks to anyone who chose to click it as a story alert, favorite story, or favorite author. And especially, I appreciate the reviews so many of you took the time to give. Even when you questioned my writing or didn't agree with a choice I made, I appreciated it. For a beginning writer like me, any kind of feedback is just incredibly helpful. I want to especially thank those who made multiple reviews, and an extra extra thanks to the following for being so faithful in their reviewing of this story: ThisLittleDeath, TrapperII, roj, and koalakoala9836, who I believe reviewed every chapter! **

**So, anyway, here it is. Enjoy!**

Epilogue

It's ridiculous, really. The way I stare at her. Almost sixty years old, and I still gawk at her like some lovesick teenage boy.

She's different, of course. We both are. Her shiny black hair transformed almost entirely to silvery gray. Weight on both of our bodies that was never there when we were younger. But, she wears it all well, and is still the most beautiful person I have ever seen.

I don't have to look in a mirror to know what my own changes are. I have to be happy for the gray hairs I have, since I prefer the gray to the bare spots. A soft body, much less muscle than my old bakery days. Luckily for me, my current prosthetic leg is much more natural looking than the previous four. Changes, always changes. Except for the scars, of course. We both knew they would never go away.

I watch her as she does some off-season pruning of the primroses, wrapped up tight in a coat and scarf. She wouldn't normally be out here this time of year, but there are reasons. There always are. Which is the other reason I watch her. Not just because she takes my breath away, like she has since we were so little. No, I'm also checking. Checking to make sure she is okay.

I can tell she's better, at least, as I am too. Better after a rough couple of nights. What has it been – about five years? – since it's been this bad. Of course it's been mounting over the last few days, and understandably so. What with what we have to face tomorrow. At least this doesn't happen very often. To hear Katniss's screams again, after these quieter years, is so difficult. For myself, I never wanted to go back to those places the dreams have taken me. To arenas and jungles, to the slaughter of innocents.

As I lean against the porch rail, bundled against the cold, I try to shake off the nightmare from last night, but that's not so easy to do. It was one of the worst. The kind that left me sitting on the edge of the bed, overcome with tremors, my head in my hands.

A violent spectacle of blood, severed parts. All done by our hands. But we weren't kids in this one; no, we were as old as we are now. Which is what made it especially gruesome, because the others were kids. Katniss and I, slaughtering kids.

She didn't tell me hers, but I can't imagine it was any less horrific.

But, in a few days, when this is all over, it should all start to subside again. Like it has all the other times. One of the benefits of aging, I suppose, is knowing that hard times will always come, but likewise, they will always go.

So, today she gardens, digs her gloved fingers into frozen dirt, gently cutting back last year's stalks. Therapy. So different than when she tried it at first, all mania, tearing and ripping. Now, she is smooth, gentle, methodical.

There's a pause in her work. Her words carry over to me: "I thought you had things to do?" Said with humor, an oft-repeated phrase that's a joke between us at times like this. Delivered without even the barest head-turn in my direction. She just always knows.

"I suppose," I answer. And I do, of course, have things to do. Quite a few things, actually. She turns her head then, checking on me too. And then she's up, more slowly than she used to rise, and coming to me. As she removes her gloves, just the slightest glimmer of dim winter light reflects off of it. If it weren't for that, I wouldn't notice it from here. But, I'd always know it was there. Our pearl. Now set in a ring on her left hand. That crazy pearl given by a teenage boy to a teenage girl many years ago, carried by both of us, a symbol of hope that never died. Something that connected us then, and became even more of a connection when we married.

Getting Katniss to agree to marriage, well, that was a challenge just like so many other decisions of ours. I knew it would just take time, that I was ready first, but if I didn't give up, she'd come around. When the time finally seemed right, I knew I couldn't do the standard down on one knee proposal. After all, she's not one for big romantic gestures. And, besides, I'd already done that, when the Capitol was forcing a marriage, and there was no way we were going to relive that memory.

So, instead, I took the pearl to a jeweler in the Capitol, had it set in a ring. Nothing extravagant, just a nice, simple setting. I felt some discomfort, a few winces, as I remembered the time I tried to suggest a commitment between us before, and had shown her the pearl. But, so much had happened between us since then, I knew in my heart it was different. After all, we were in a new place in our relationship, learning so much about each other, in love. It seemed right.

So, after the ring was finished, I didn't make any fancy presentation of it. Just waited until one night when we were getting into bed and presented it to her. Asked her simply if we could get married. Again, wanting her to make that choice, not making her feel forced or mandated to do anything. She accepted, and we set the date shortly after that.

That was all so simple, but planning the wedding, well, that was something else. Ultimately we got what we wanted, a small quiet ceremony with a few witnesses, the District 12 tradition with the toast. But it was a battle to get it to work out that way. Once word got out we were engaged, the whole of Panem wanted something else entirely. Being personally acquainted with President Paylor was the thing that saved us, as she employed some devious tactics to keep our wedding date a secret. Of course we appreciated that a whole nation wanted to rejoice in our happiness, but the truth is, the nation never really knew us, what we were really about.

I'm so wrapped up in my thoughts, my memories, that I don't even realize she's right there with me now. "I thought you had about a hundred things to do?" she teases me as we exchange a kiss.

She looks at me closely, the lines on her face a reflection of the life she's lived, and she sees my worry. "I'm okay, really," she tells me. "Go ahead into town. You've got a train to meet, and you don't want to be late. I'll be here when you get back." Her smile tells me she means it, to stop hovering. It's a hard habit to break, after all this time. But, I agree and head into town. She's right. There's no way I want to miss that train.

I never get over the surprise I feel each time I walk into town, the transformation that's taken place. Sure, forty years is a long time, but it took so long for big differences to really happen. . The town center, filled with shops, houses and apartments of all styles. Schools for the children, community gardens, paths to walk on. Even a few shiny buildings and cars on the roads. I pass the first of three bakeries in town. None of them mine. Not that I never considered it.

As families moved back into Twelve so many years ago, there was some interest, and actually pressure at times, for me to start a bakery, continue my family's business. I had been giving away baked goods, to worker, shopkeepers, new arrivals. Katniss was all for it, continuing my family's tradition. But, after thinking long on it, I decided not to. Baking was a way of life in my earlier years, part of my identity. Somewhere along the way, though, it became therapy, a necessary element of my recovery. Making it a job had me worried it would take that away from me. Besides, to work it would need to be a family business. I laugh as I remember the disaster of Katniss baking bread with me so many years ago. At some point, a person has to recognize their limitations, and well, the baking business is just not part of her blood.

I stop in the market, check over the list given to me by Katniss, and gather up the things we need. Plenty of things, since we'll have quite a bit of company over the next couple of days.

The days we haven't wanted to think about. In forty years, we've managed to avoid it every other time. Always found some kind of an excuse: some plausible, some just barely a thread of an excuse. A friend or relative needing our help. One of us overcome with illness. An appointment in another district. But this time, well, we were out of excuses. So, we're facing what we dread. The 40th Anniversary of the fall of the Capitol, Panem's Freedom Day Celebration. And who is going to be interviewed for all to see? The Mockingjay herself.

Forty years. Of course, it's an important day to commemorate. It's a day of celebration throughout all of Panem. Schools closed, businesses closed. People celebrating the overthrow of hatred, the end of the horrific Hunger Games, the beginnings of freedom. The only problem with this anniversary? Well, of course for Katniss it marks another anniversary as well, one she can never separate from the commemorated day, because how could she? Prim's death was part of the whole thing. So, while the whole of Panem rejoices, it's a day every year that for us is quiet and reflective, no fanfare, no pomp, just us, getting through it as best we can, remembering in our own quiet way.

So, we knew the nightmares were inevitable, and I do have things to do today. Things to get ready for tomorrow, when the cameras descend on us, when we have to assume our roles again. She as the Mockingjay, and us together as the star-crossed lovers. It's not the first time Panem has wanted this from us. The 5 year anniversary, the 10 year, 20 year, 30 year. Each time, their attempt to get their symbols of the revolution back on television, back before crowds. So, why are they getting what they want this time? Well, apart from being out of excuses, it's kind of a favor for an old friend.

He'd never asked before, during all those other years when he was the hotshot anchor at different networks, maybe because he wasn't ready to face it either. But, as his career slows down, even the good looks he bears at his age vastly overshadowed by the new anchors who could be his children, he decided that maybe the time was right. So, Gale will be here tomorrow, ready to interview us, to spend three days with us. We haven't seen him, at least in person, since he last visited, about twelve years ago now. And, there's some anxiety, on Katniss's part, since his visit corresponds with the anniversary of Prim's death. Katniss eventually told me about the association between Gale and the parachutes and Prim. Finally forgave him and was able to forge a peace between them. Maybe my chance meeting with him many years ago helped make that happen.

It was a couple of years after I'd decided not to open a bakery. I still needed work, and helped out in some of the shops in town for a time. But, with some prodding from people we knew around here, I made a decision to try something else – I ran for election as a representative of District 12. I won, handily, and was excited about the possibility of continuing to make Panem not just better, but a country in this world that others would aspire to be like.

I only stayed in the position for two years, though. The politics got to me; the insistence of others in treating me as a symbol, rather than as a guy who wanted to work out the best for his district, his nation. Besides, it involved frequent extended stays in the Capitol, and as much as Katniss and I don't need to be joined at the hip, being apart was hard for both of us. So, after that, I returned to my work here. When the kids got older, I reentered politics, but this time at the local level. A council member for 12. It's satisfying work, inherently frustrating at times, but it helps me feel like I have a hand in making our district one of contentment and opportunity, a place where families and individuals prosper. And, best of all, it keeps me close to home.

Back when I was a representative, I had a chance meeting over lunch one day. Of all people to run into in the Capitol, Gale. He asked to join me, and we sat together eating a meal as though we were old friends. We were both older, but Gale didn't show many signs of his age, still so handsome. When he asked about Katniss, I told him all I could. Better, so much better, but still struggling with nightmares and bouts of depression. That we were hoping to start a family. Still living in the Victor's Village. I asked about him. Not settled down yet, either professionally or personally. When we left, he shook my hand, and his words were, "I can tell now, Peeta. Katniss made the right choice. You're the one for her." Sincere? Yes, I'm sure of it. I told Katniss when I returned home, and her response to his statement? "Well, of course. Anyone can see that."

So, time passed and peace was made, and now we'll be entertaining him as a house guest. Along with more faces from the past, the reinforcements we called in when we knew we'd have to do this thing. Johanna will be arriving tomorrow by train. We've been lucky to see her many times over the years, and in her own unique way, she's been a good friend to Katniss. Johanna's one of those people you just don't have to pretend around. There'd be no point in it. Finn will join us as well, along with his wife, Jos. Can't believe Finn is nearing forty, a happy man with a good life. Annie isn't up to the trip, and it'll be a shame to miss her.

I remember the trip we took, Katniss and I, to see her and meet Finn not long after we were married. Of course, it was a trip that would be impossible to forget. We took advantage of the travel in District 4 to see Katniss's mom. This was where we got blind-sided: upon our arrival, we learned that she was dying. A slow, painful death only eased by her own healing herbs and a good doctor in the district. I cannot possibly forget the agony it put Katniss through, when we arrived and found things were not as they seemed. Katniss's mother, her hair mostly gone, a red rash creeping over so much of her. The emotions that flashed across Katniss's face – confusion, surprise, and shock, then anger. Her fury, at being left in the dark about this most critical point in her mother's life. Her incredible effort to hold in the screams that were trying to tear out of her, hold them in for everyone else's sake.

We were so fortunate to get there when we did. She didn't make it long after that, and the loss of her mother was obviously devastating for Katniss. But, having felt she'd already lost her mother so many years before, well, it left her feeling empty for quite awhile.

It also meant our children would never know their grandparents. They're in the book, of course. All of them, and we shared their pictures and our memories with the kids often. Fortunately, they had a sort of surrogate grandfather in the person of Haymitch. Sadly, he's left us now, but I think we were all surprised how long he stayed with us, given the state of his body and his mind. The last years of his life were among his best. The day he met Lenelia Locken, a waitress in town, his age, but about a hundred times wilder, with her blonde spiked hair, her clothes as outrageous as anything you'd see in the Capitol. She kept him on his toes those years, gave him something to live for.

You old fool, I think to myself. Getting so wrapped up in memories like this. I check my watch, not wanting to be late, not even a minute late, to the train. Of course, memories of the past are always the heaviest when we hit these anniversary days.

I quicken my steps, as I hurry to meet the other two who will be staying with us. The guests we're looking forward to the most, of course. Our own daughter, Primrose Rue, and her husband, Ryis. We were broken-hearted when, after they got married, they chose to live in District 11. But we understood. As quiet as we've tried to keep our life, there's been recurring interest in us, through all our years, just as there is now. It was something Primrose needed to separate herself from, needed the anonymity she could only have outside of District Twelve. So, she and Ryis found work in Eleven, and thankfully it's not so far away. Just a few hours on the train, so we are able to see them frequently. Not the same as if they lived here close by, but it could be worse.

At least Harmon, our son, chose to stay in Twelve. Living alone, but not too far from us. It seems funny, how many years it took for Katniss to decide that she wanted children too. I, in all honesty, was pretty desperate, never able to really imagine our lives without children. But, I tried so hard not to push, not to make her feel like she had to do that just for me. Because that's something that's always seemed too easy for her, the ability, the decision to do something to please me or someone else rather than because it's important to her.

But, after about fifteen years, the day came, the day Katniss felt it might be a safe enough world for us to start a family. We almost waited too long, not sure we'd be able to conceive children in our late thirties. Carrying Primrose was hard for Katniss, all her old fears resurfacing, the nightmares increasing. But, the joy, from the very beginning, that Primrose has given us, is something neither of us could ever imagine being without. Naming her was easy enough. Had she been born years before, it may have been too hard for Katniss to choose her sister's name. But, since more time had passed, it felt right. Then, a few years later, a boy. Harmon Chesley Davon Mellark. A mouthful of a name, but Katniss insisted. It was important to honor not just my dad, Harmon, but both of my brothers as well. So, he's got a mouthful of a name and a big heart.

Watching them grow up, which all happened way too fast, changed our lives. There's nothing like kids to keep you grounded in the here and now, stop you from dwelling on the past. Except, of course, when the days came that we started to tell them about the Games and our part in them. About the rebellion and the Mockingjay.

They had a lot of questions. Harmon, always forthright with his, never holding back. Primrose, more introspective. She'd be quiet, taking in what we'd say, then about three days later would suddenly ask us a question about it. We worried that her mind was troubled with our past, but it's been obvious to us, our children have grown up happy. Happy and safe.

My quicker pace gets me to the train station ahead of the train, and I see the posting that says it'll be about ten minutes late. Enough time to sit and wait. From here I can see a lot of the newer buildings in town, see the memorial. It doesn't make me flinch anymore, neither of us, like it used to. At first, for years in fact, it was too hard for Katniss to bear, the list of names, all the tributes from all the years, all the families lost to the bombing. But, time passes on, and it became more familiar to us, less of something to be avoided, more important to see it, to remember, to reflect.

I hear the rumble, getting closer, train wheels on tracks. It arrives, and folks start to leave the train. And then there she is, bundled against the cold, her beautiful dark hair falling like a waterfall around her shoulders. She spots me right away, quickens her paces, a virtual jog. Her smile, always so warm, so open. The cold has brought out a blush in her cheeks as well. Ryis, her husband, is along with her, tall, sandy-haired, young and eager. He is holding her hand.

I embrace my little girl, my grown-up little girl, shake the hand of the man she loves. Help them with their bags; thankfully they travel light. The light is getting dimmer as we make our way back to our house, talking the whole way of the trip, the weather. We all know better than to mention what begins tomorrow. Tonight is a night not to be intruded on in that way.

By the time we get home, Harmon has arrived and is at work getting a fire going in the fireplace, his blond hair tumbling into his eyes as he does so. Greetings are made all the way around, and Primrose goes to help Katniss in the kitchen. It's funny to still be here, in this house. The Victor's Village, it used to be called. We were so thankful when the sign was torn down, and the areas around us were blended in so our neighborhood didn't stand out anymore as something different.

We'd talked for years of moving to a different house, maybe building. But, the timing was never right, and instead we just worked on this place. Remodeled some inside, extended the gardens outside, chose our own furnishings. Once all the other houses on the street became occupied and the sounds of life and children and activity were around us, it really made the place what it is now and has been for years: our home.

Dinner is soon ready, there's a steady stream of conversation around the table. Any time we have Harmon and Primrose here together it gets loud. Their sibling banter, their debates, always in fun, done in love, but boisterous. Ryis gets a surprise when one of our two cats, Pipsqueak, jumps on his lap to try to get at his soup.

Katniss catches my eye and smiles. She's at her best when her family is around. She needs life around her, always has.

Just before we dig into dessert, Primrose suddenly asks for everyone's attention.

"Ryis and I have some news."

We all wait, wondering, hoping everything is okay. They exchange a glance, then she tells us. "We're going to have a baby."

Silence follows, the news sinking in. Harmon's the first to break the silence. "Whew – thank you, sis. More pressure off me to settle down!"

We laugh, and suddenly the congratulations are flowing. I'm on my feet without realizing it, going over to hug my girl, pat my son-in-law on the back.

Katniss smiles and says softly, "I'm so happy for you," her voice thick with emotion.

After dinner, I see them huddled together, mother and daughter. Talking closely. The bond they have has always been so close. I know this is a special moment for both of them.

Katniss and I sit in the living room after cleaning up the dishes. Harmon's gone home for the night. Primrose and Ryis are settled into the guest room. Many nights, we sit and watch television in the evening, such a new and novel concept for us. But, we won't be watching for awhile, not until this period of remembrance has passed, because we know what we'd see. We lived it, we don't need to relive it. So, instead we drink tea, talk, read. We're quiet tonight, each lost in our own thoughts. She breaks the silence first: "Well, I guess I'll have to start calling you Grandpa Mellark."

"And you'll be Grandma. Honestly, even now I sometimes can't believe that I'd even be called 'dad' let alone Grandpa. How did we get to be so old anyway?"

She just laughs and returns her gaze to the cover of the book she's been reading, tracing the words with her finger. "So," she says, "that was big news. A baby." I think I catch a hint of a smile forming at the corners of her mouth.

"You used to worry so much about babies."

"Used to. Not anymore. This one is just….just perfect. Couldn't be more perfect."

She looks happy, content. But, as always I still feel the need to assuage her fears. "She's strong and healthy. Primrose. She'll….do great. She'll be a natural mother."

"Yes, she will. The best."

"And Ryis. He's a good husband. He'll make a wonderful father."

She nods. "Just like someone else I know," she says, and her gray eyes meet mine. I look right back at her, at that same face I've been staring at for 40-some years.

I've tried to be a good husband, a good father. To be with Katniss, share a life with her, but give her the space she needs as well. Do we argue, have disagreements? Sure, of course. Sometimes she gets irritated with my generally hopeful nature, needs to wrap herself in darkness just for a while, then work her way out. It's one of the reasons we balance each other so well, fit together. Dark and light.

"So, about tomorrow….how do you feel?" I ask.

"I'm okay. Not worried. I can handle tomorrow," she replies, no trace of the old fear and pain in her voice. "Besides, I'll have you right next to me."

I take her hand in mine and reply back, simple and true: "Always."


End file.
